Innocent Guilt
by Shadow Sanctuary
Summary: Suffering from an eating disorder, Kaiba Seto threatens death by starvation, but is all his pain really self-inflicted? -based on a true story, rated for language and disturbing imagery.-
1. Prologue: Innocent Guilt

Prologue: Innocent Guilt  
  
"You're not a bad person." Joey said softly. "You know that, don't you?"  
  
Carelessly, I shrugged, avoiding any real eye contact.  
  
"Don't give me that, Set. Now's your chance ta prove you've got what I think ya do."  
  
"What's that?" I asked dully.  
  
"Honesty."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Not 'oh'. I want more than some half-assed try at duckin' questions."  
  
"Like...?"  
  
"The truth." he said simply. "That's all I want from ya. Some explanation for why ya are the way ya are, why ya do these horrible things to yourself."  
  
I looked up sharply at him. Hazel eyes regarded me with a silent sense of wonder, studying my reaction, waiting expectantly for a reply. Would anything I had to say serve as a suitable excuse for my behavior? What could I possibly tell him that wouldn't be cross-examined or analyzed to death? I wanted to spill my deepest, darkest dilemmas to him, cry on his shoulder, just bawl like a baby until every last gruesome detail was revealed, but I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. Nobody wants to listen to my problems about keeping anything down, the binges I go on after starving for days on end, the bad habit of jabbing my fingers down my throat, jerking forward, puking into that ever-hungry toilet bowl. How could I disclose that to a therapist, much less someone I know from school? Would I be able to flush out my whole story-laxative abuse, severe depression, obsessing over weight loss, measuring myself in the mirror, counting the bones showing through my skin, spitting out half-chewed candy-without being hated or judged?  
  
Sick to my stomach, my head began to dip in shame, but a hand under my jaw prevented me from going into hiding.  
  
"I wanna know, man." Joey urged. "Why?"  
  
Absently, I shook my head.  
  
"You don't know, then?"  
  
"No, that's not it. That's not it at all."  
  
"Then what? What is it?"  
  
Could I trust him? Will I be doing myself a favor if I do? Figuring I'd be no better off keeping my history in a vault, my fingers, as if finagling a combination on a lock, circled round and round on top of the arm of the park bench. One imaginary number went by, then another registered, drawing close to the third and final digit in the password to my personal files, each containing the sick, sad episodes I experienced. Dehydration, self- mutilation, spitting up blood while vomiting, nasty mood swings, attempts at suicide, creating death wishes-every morbid action was strategically played, carefully thought through, the dominoes all lined up and ready to fall into place. All they needed was my command, the last and ultimate order to drive the stakes into my wrists, crucifying me for my multitude of mistakes.  
  
For what, though? What were these sequences of self-inflicted misery geared towards? Is that my primary focus, to win an early funeral? Was that the only way I could obtain peace in my warring head? Once I perished, would the voices stop, be quiet, die with me? No. They would follow me wherever I would go, my immortals succeeding over a tragic hero's valor-unless I triumphed over them. Everything that has a beginning has an end. This will have an end. Not decades, weeks from now, or even tomorrow.  
  
Tonight.  
  
It all ends tonight.  
  
Opening the door to my chamber of secrets, I unleashed a lifetime of pain, regret, remorse, and every imaginable feeling of ill will designed to tear myself apart.  
  
"I hate myself." I divulged, looking him in the face, my words dead serious and devoid of humor. "I've never liked myself. Never."  
  
His expression changed from calm and collected to sad, upset, and even slightly disturbed. He couldn't bring himself to speak, but rolled his hand in a nice, easy-going loop. The gesture was an odd, shaky way of telling me to continue. For reasons I didn't understand myself, I did what he wanted me to do. Licking my dry, cracked lips, I resumed the terrible tale of my existence, one that I not only hoped would have an end one day, but would also make me innocent of the eating disorder that caused me such great guilt... 


	2. Diary of the Damned

Chapter One: Diary of the Damned

___December 13, 2003___

_Threw up again.__ Dinner was great, the lasagna was delicious, and the sides (corn, chef's salad, asparagus, and about a hundred other varieties of vegetables and cheeses) were scrumptious additions to my plate, but I couldn't keep it down. Not the main course, cheddar, or even the French wine could be prevented from coming up, no matter how hard I willed my subconscious to stop pestering my ego about calorie consumption. Realistically, I can enjoy just about any concoction placed in front of me, but that nagging voice--no, that pretentious bastard in the back of my mind--won't leave well enough alone ._

_Damn you, my overbearing, overprotective bitch of a psyche._

_Damn you to _hell_._

_Yes, I'm probably as fucked as they come, missing a few screws, playing a game of marbles with an incomplete set, but that's the way life is--excuse me--always has been for me. _

_And I have no idea what to make out of this small situation of mine. _

_Here I am, the CEO of a major corporation, spokesperson and creator of the latest gaming technology, someone so high up the food chain that I could purchase the Supreme Court for guaranteed freedom if my ass was ever threatened with prison, and I'm still susceptible to one of the most lethal disorders to scratch the heads of social scientists. Aren't I just the _lucky_ one?_

Feeling an unpleasant wave jostle the insides of my stomach, I dropped my pen and glanced at my midsection.

"Looks like there's a rumbling in my tummy." I murmured, grimacing as I drew my writing hand to the disturbed part of my body. It didn't lessen the stabbing sensations, but at least it eased my troubled thoughts. That was a good enough reason alone to keep the limb there. 

Gritting my teeth in unison with the excruciating vibes, I pressed the back of my other palm to my forehead, wiped away some beads of sweat, then let the arm fall back in place. Every part of my frame throbbed as if I had been running for miles, relentlessly sprinting over wet sand, a slanted spiral that had me gasping for breath each time I opened my mouth. Actually, I found this experience to be somewhat amusing. Not in humorous pleasantry, but in the way that was comical under risky conditions. You know the kind, where literally _everything _seems funny because the senses are shot without any promise of redemption. 

Truthfully, I haven't exercised in three years, not since my gymnastics instructor reprimanded me for a poor performance on the high bar. I loathed how he scolded me, _hated _how he treated me like a child barely able to hang upright on the beam. In front of every couple, their toddler-age children, and other students in my class (most were no older than eight, I wasthe only male there who was in high school), I told my haughty superior where he could stick the damned rod at. That was the only afternoon at gym I left with a genuine smile on my face, a pleasedand content expression that would never be forgotten. Happiness like that was an atypical commodity, and I cherished all fifteen seconds of my fame, no matter whose blacklist I ended up on then. Any other time, I was doing well not to flip the judges off when I went to competition.

Realizing that the horrible clenching had subsided, I returned to my desk and replaced my quill in its ink bottle. Casting a nervous gaze around the study, my eyes scanned the bookshelves, couch, and surrounding furnishings, searching for a sign of someone there. It's an uncanny notion I get when I'm by myself, cooped up in a room with the insanity that loneliness brings in the dead of winter, where the frosty wind invades my skin and turns my blood into an icy ocean of paranoia. Finally, my eyes drifted to the frame of the room, the double doors pressed against the walls like two soldiers camouflaged in brown paint. The accents stood at full attention, tall, straight fixtures that mirrored the proud stances that my bodyguards flaunted. Settling my gaze on the gaping mouth the towers left, I came to a comfortable understanding--

No one was there.

Patting my chest, I blew out a heavy sigh of relief. Nobody was eavesdropping or peeking over my shoulder, and I couldn't have asked for better fortune than that. These are _my_ secrets, _my_ special somethings that are meant for these eyes and ears only, items meant for me to add onto or dispose of in my spare time. I was happy no one was observing me from a distance.

No one _should _be there. 

Forcing myself to concentrate, I spied a gold knob to my left and gave the handle a modest tug. Almost immediately, the drawer opened, revealing my standard perfectionism. Documents were neatly stacked and paper clipped there, with writing utensils that were as important as the pages themselves to their right. Beside the legal sheets sat a box of envelopes, resting in vertical alignment to stamps, postage sporting the American flag. There, hiding amongst the professional refuse, dozed a vital brass accessory. Sticking a weary hand in the compartment, my fingers plucked the shiny object from its location. 

"After all," I mused, slipping the object through the surface of my book, "What's a diary without a lock?"

"An unpublished memoir?" proposed a small voice from behind me, sharing an odd mixture of seriousness and weird serenity.

Startled, I clicked the lock closed, shoved the book under some tax forms, then slammed the furniture shut. The abrupt actions caused my brother to stand on edge, staring at me with big scary eyes that seemed perilously close to tears. It was a look that didn't come over his features very often, but when the expression _did _surface, I knew it meant that something was wrong. He was terrified about one matter or another.

_Pure, unadulterated fear..._

Relaxing at the sight of the fright-filled look, I rose from my chair and fell to one knee. Gazing at him sympathetically, I beckoned to him with outstretched arms while smiling, but he remained where he was. It took many minutes of nodding and wiggling my fingers before he started towards me, cherub feet padding across the carpet, the stuffed rabbit he slept with bouncing against his thigh, his behavior serving as a reminder of how I was at his age. Even the bunny was a friend I had cuddled with in childhood years, for it was a toy I had lovingly named, played with, and thought of as a real person. Now Mokuba was the owner of the artifact of my youth, a boy who made a splendid parent for the cottontail. Waving at me each moment it struck the child's leg, Mr. Fluffian (an immature title for the poor thing, but it was all my six-year-old mind could invent) seemed to gesture with a pink paw to my sibling's pajamas. Tonight's set consisted of the powerful Blue Eyes White Dragon on the top, while its evolved form dotted a gray backdrop of pants. Naturally, my relative likes everything I do, and that works out to my advantage in the long run. He couldn't have picked a finer duel monster to display on himself. If _he _could only be as happy with _me _as I am with _him_, then maybe I'd begin to feel better about myself. Maybe.

Once he was within reaching distance, I closed the gap with my arms, hugging him until he returned the favor. Nothing feels as good as those little arms around my neck, squeezing me back with enough affection to make an orphanage of kids experience the joy of being loved. When the brotherly gesture ended, he sat on my leg and dug his rump into a cozy position. Afterwards, he set his huge indigo orbs on me, fixing me with a sad stare that nearly broke my heart. 

"What?" I questioned him, surprised by the emotional production. "What is it?"

Without answering me, he buried his face in my chest. Puzzled, I began stroking his hair, twirling the blue-gray tresses in subtle motions, hoping the movements would calm my sibling's soul. It wasn't until I felt something warm and wet soak my shirt that I pulled him away from me. 

"What, Mokuba?" I asked in exasperation, praying that he would recognize his name, wishing that my words would be enough to save him from this upset rush. Looking at me with wide, unblinking eyes, his mouth started to move, but no dialogue came out. His lips quivered in the dim lighting of the room, silent speech that qualified as language of the unformed, some strange malfunction where someone jammed the mute button on him. Alarmed and at a loss for what to say or do, I held him closer to me.

I almost put his head on my shoulder, but I heard him cry, "_I had a bad dream! "_

Exhaling in momentary relief, I turned my arms into a cradle, gently rocking him back and forth, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear to pacify him.

"Tell me about it." I said quietly, brushing a wave of hair from his face.

He shook his head. "You won't like it." he countered, gripping my clothes tightly. "I'm big and strong and _I _can't even stand it."

I smiled knowingly. "Why don't you let me decide that much for myself?"

Mokuba bit his lower lip in consideration, mulling over my suggestion carefully. With his eyes closed and his head tilted inward, he didn't notice me getting to my feet and stepping out of my office, walking into the corridor he toddled from. Passing a painting of a waterfall with a host of playful pixies by, I veered to the right, sweeping us both into an area stockpiled with toys, video games, virtual reality simulations, and art centers. His room, of course, which also provided a walk-in closet and enough fashion statements to put the runways in Paris to shame. Tip-toeing around a cluster of recent masterpieces, I cut a clear path to his mattress without tripping or fumbling a step. Exhausted, I set him on the sheets, pulled his comforter up to his neck, and pecked him on the cheek. Thrusting aside some action figures with my foot, I shot him a dubious look.

 "What?" he queried, the heavy mists of sleep descending upon his features.

"How could you get to my den without knocking yourself out?"

"Easy," he said, the tension in his voice diminishing. "I just play leapfrog over my stuff and I turn out fine. You should try it some time 'cuz fallin' on a Red Eyes could hurt bad."

"Not if I did it intentionally." I grumbled, suddenly recalling the moron who claimed ownership of the dragon.

"What was that?"

Yawning, I pressed a hand to my lips, expelled a gust of used oxygen, the replied, "Nothing. I was just thinking out loud again."

"Oh, you mean like Joey does?"

"No," I responded tiredly, "it's like _I _do." 

"Yeah, but he also does that."

Now the late night hour was _really_ getting to me. Turning off his reading lamp, I tucked him in the rest of the way, shaking off a bout of sleep as I straightened his bedding. 

"That's because he gets it from me." I responded in a half-weary, half-irritated tone. "I swear he'd be _hazardous _if he could think of original battle tactics. Why, I may even--"

Glancing at my brother, I smiled blissfully, placed another kiss on his cheek, and passed my fingers through his hair. I always had a token of affection for this cute angel of mine, left to my charge by a mother and father who would be as proud of him as I am—if they were still alive today.

"Sweet dreams, Little One." I whispered lovingly in his ear. "Lullaby and good-night."

Believing him to be asleep, I groped my way through the darkness, not really seeing anything, but _feeling_ everything there. Miraculously, I stood tall and unharmed by any missteps at the entrance to his living quarters. I can't describe how wonderful that felt to cross the minefields of cards, plastic creations, and clay safely without a scratch on me. Assuming my work here was complete, I put a foot outside his bedroom, only to hear a young, phantom voice ask something I wasn't prepared to listen to.

"What if the bad dream comes back?" mumbled Mokuba.

"Then pray for our archangel mother to give you peaceful rest."

"What if she doesn't? What if I have to see you be put in the hospital again?"

Chilled to the bone, I snapped my gaze to his visage, trying to comprehend his grave premonition.

"Excuse me?" I asked, my politeness layered with agitation. 

"I dreamt you were in the hospital and died there. Your funeral was--" Interrupting himself, he confirmed what he foretold earlier. "Told ya you wouldn't wanna know."

Stiffening, I blinked my eyes to refocus my vision and thoughts. 

_It's just a dream, _I repeated over and over again, _just a dream, it's _just_ a dream…_

Hoping to quiet the obnoxious voice in my mind, I gathered my courage, sucked in my pride, then forced out the one question I dreaded forming the words for.

 "Why did I die?"

Sensing my unusual apprehension, he reacted by slowly delivering the ominous news.

" 'Cuz you wouldn't eat." he answered cautiously, the moonlight reflecting untold sorrow in his eyes. "You wouldn't eat anything from anyone an' you starved to death."


	3. Darkest Hours

Chapter Two: Darkest Hours

Nightmares kept me up for most of the early morning hours, so I gave up trying to fall asleep and waited for sunrise. I sat on my bed, staring out of the window like a zombie, eyes dead and lifeless, body as coldly unrefined as a corpse's. My frame stayed in one position so long that I believed I was paralyzed, for my limbs refused to obey any commands my brain handed them. Everything on me had gone numb, except for my thoughts, jumbled ideas springing back and forth in my head in awkward bursts of life. Breathing was becoming a very demanding chore, an action that was reduced to small raspy wheezes sprinting in and out of my lungs. 

The single piece of knowledge that brought a smile to my face was the date. It's December 14, a Sunday, universally known as a day of rest for public school students. Work, studies, and the rest of the daily grind could be procrastinated--to as late as tomorrow morning, that is. Then it would be back to balancing checkbooks, keeping ties with the stock market, burning precious sleep time for classes, dividing my attention in three different directions just to break even. This is a never-ending triangle for me, job gnawing at the bottom right point, with degree plans beside that, followed by family teetering on the tip of the ice burg. 

Nobody knows this, but that's the hardest part of the shape to pull off, a real mental and physical drain that has been creeping over my head from the moment Mokuba and I became orphans. Silent reveries have me wondering where my childhood has gone, where it's ending up at, how it will _ever _come in my existence without being shoved to the side of the breakfast table with a cup of black coffee and the Business section of the newspaper. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother more than any human alive, but being deprived of informality gets to me after a while. I don't know why I'm even bringing this to light--everyone has their own problems to deal with--but I find myself reaching the end of my rope more often than not.

Mokuba is a terrific sibling, someone bright and beautiful, a best friend that serves as the only ray of sunshine in my darkest hours, and I admire the sparks of valor that flash in his eyes now and then. As far as true companionship goes, the boy can be a source of great entertainment and joy; however, he has difficulty understanding mature topics. I don't hold this against him, nor would I ever tell him that directly, but our relationship has some non-traditional quirks that make for awkward conversations among outsiders. Not only is he a relative, he is the child of a surrogate father still in high school. Being a single-parent has its perks, but not when peers identify me as someone fifteen going on thirty, taunting me with ridiculous chants that should have stayed in kindergarten. 

While I may uphold an insane amount of responsibilities, that doesn't mean I'm incapable of acting my age. Honestly, I've never been given the chance to be a teenager. Sometimes I wonder if I'll _ever _be anything other than a stereotypical businessman, a ball-busting asshole who is only concerned with the company's bottom line, an executive that evolved so fast that arcades, dances, and even hanging out are mere privileges unheard of. Then again, I _also _ponder when I'll be able to associate with someone who is at least as experienced as I am. For some reason, that dream seemed as unattainable as harvesting money trees in my yard, something I fantasized about doing often, but knew deep down inside that I'd have to keep competing for international sales to meet my high standards. Everything chews a hole in my credit and savings—the house, cars, things to go _inside _of the dwelling—and all I could do was hope I could keep up with the material demands.

Sometimes I wish I could take the easy way out. You know, stroll to the city lake, stand over the water, spread my bare feather wings and take a swan dive into a pile of rocks. One jump and everything would vanish into a pool of red, turning me colorblind for the last seconds of my shriveled life before the tunnel of light guided me through it. The only thing prohibiting me from committing such a heinous crime is the image of my brother's expression, a twist of terrible shock and rage that would never forgive me, not even if I was still alive on the base of the chasm. If I ever pulled a stunt like that, I deserved to die without salvation.

_Mokuba__…_I breathed, the air around me thick with guilty sadness, _I'm sorry for ever letting those ideas get in my head. It's not fair to fly off the deep end like that and leave you by yourself…_

Widening my eyes, I arrived at a troubling thought, one that should have crossed my mind previously, but had slipped through the crevices of altered perception.

_Mokuba__! _My head shouted, commanding my body to react. Most of my structure had hit the snooze button on their clocks, appearing to be a bag of bones drifting in Dreamland. _I haven't seen him since last night!_

Sliding into the role of a worried parent, I called the child's name repeatedly. "Mokuba? Mokuba, where are you?" I said stridently, stress outlining my falsely tranquil tone. "Mokuba?"

My only response was the low rumble of the heater turning on. Although it was smack in the middle of winter, the thermometer rarely dipped below sixty-five degrees, producing a fairly comfortable climate for residents of Domino City. Most people could be seen displaying matching shirt and pants sets, casual spring attire that didn't warrant the use of a jacket. Matter of fact, it was unusual to witness someone wearing the typical clothes of the season—gloves, scarves, woolly coats, ear muffs—but there was always one person here or there decked out in heavy accessories. 

I happened to be one of them.

Even on a hot summer afternoon, I shiver in the sun. That's the explanation behind the trench coats and perfectly pressed suit collections—the garments have an aristocratic manner to them, but they _also _help to keep my skin lukewarm. If I didn't have them on, I'd be shaking as violently as a car wreck victim, sort of like I am now. I'm not _physically_ freezing, though. My flesh wasn't dropping in heat because of an inability to stay above zero degrees. It was prickled with goose bumps because my sibling—my last living relative—had failed to reply to my calls.

"Mokuba?" I tried again, my voice echoing off the walls, traveling to my ears in frightened waves. I don't know why I am overacting so much; it _certainly _wasn't a valued personality trait to display. Biting back my uneasiness, I swallowed a clump of dread into my stomach and sat up straight.

Dizziness attacked my senses, making the room blend together in a childish finger painting. Never would I have imagined staying steady on my feet to be a monumental task. Slapping a hand to my temple, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to get my bearings by eliminating my surroundings. I couldn't really do such a thing, but I needed the time to breathe. There was a thirteen-year-old kid on the loose, someone who counted on me for guidance and moral support, and I just _lost _him. This wasn't some pen or misplaced book I was considering. He's a living, breathing human being, an individual who has been with me since we were introduced to orphanages, a boy that comforted my weariness with a slight smile or hug. 

Someone that sweet and lovable couldn't be replaced. 

Not in a million years.

Dragging my lids open, I found that my eyes remained in a pair of half-slits, fleshy curtains that would rather be closed than let in any sunshine. Fortunately, my will is stronger than my matter, so I ordered this sore wreckage to put itself in motion. Images of household furnishings sailed past my sight, warping themselves into hazy renditions of Picasso's cubism. Everywhere I looked, my brain registered pictures of blocky, swirling objects dancing before my vision like sickening sugar plums. Nevertheless, I advanced through the dimly lit mansion, sacrificing my health for Mokuba's sake.

"Brother?" I yelled over an ornate banister. His bedroom was downstairs, which was a stroke of luck when I desired to rest, but was also a curse when any day I wished to shatter the monotony of my vocation. Mustering an overused supply of strength, I shouted his name once more, loud enough to make my throat hurt. "_Brother_!"

No response, not even a cry of annoyance. This could mean one of two things: A.) he is out of hearing range from me, or B.) he is ignoring me to carry on playing his PS2, forming a new deck, or is just _waiting _to see if I come after him. He's done _that _on a few occasions already, enough for me to confiscate his CD's and computer until he told me the motivation for his disobedient behavior. 

Much to my surprise, the kid revealed to me that he was hanging on his cell, sweet-talking one of his classmates with the charm and sophistication passed down from our family's genes. Imagine that—my pubescent little bro hitting on some seventh grader, trying to score a date for next weekend. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Kaiba Mokuba has had a taste of crushes and pretty faces, so take care not to get swept off your feet by his charisma and cleverness. I'm joking, of course. Realistically, my brother is as shy as a domesticated bunny, always pining for someone or another that doesn't even know he exists. You should have seen the way his cheeks flushed when he spouted off the details of the vixen he fell (and _continues _to fall all over) for.

That's _probably why he's not talking to me. _I reasoned, rapping my fingertips on the glossy surface, gazing thoughtfully at the level below. _I bet he's sitting on the floor again, phone glued to his ear, mouth going a mile a minute because he is too embarrassed to shut up and heat what she _really _thinks of him._

Lightly, I shook my head, a useless sign of negation that signified my disinterest in relationships. If my sibling is happy throwing himself at the mercy of a clueless female, then that will obviously make him a hell of a lot less moody to be around. I couldn't say that I comprehended the importance of the whole romantic scene. There aren't many people who advocate being single, but I do, and that's what matters to me at this point. Love is intriguing to fantasize about; however, that's as far as I ever get in obtaining a partnership. I mean, if I am completely capable of handling _and _sustaining myself for this long in life, why would I need another individual there to be by my side?

Dismissing my theories of partnerships, I turned into the stairwell leading to the rest of the estate. Sure, he very well _could _be chatting away on his personal line, wasting his minutes as fast as prospective girlfriends come and go, but I had to check on him. My conscience wouldn't allow me to involve myself in anyother activity until I knew for certain that he was alright.

Grasping the railing with a tremulous hand, I brought my left limb around my waist and descended the stairs. Lethargically, my body thumped across the ground, throwing harsh smacks into the hallway. It was a creepy noise to listen to, one that reminded me of old horror movies where a psychotic killer is meandering down the steps, expression blank and pitiless, blade of mortal destruction suspended above his brow as he stalked after his fatality. The prey, which spends most of the movie running from the atrocity, screams at the failed attempt to escape impending doom. Then, like an angel of death, the murderer hunts his casualty down, raises his weapon, and—

Suddenly, for no other reason than idiotic fear, I whipped my head to the side; turning myself just enough to observe what was behind me. Luckily, the place was as clear as it had been formerly, showing me Oriental carpeting, lamps, and lustrous white wallpaper with gold accents. Smiling at my foolishness, I reprimanded myself for allowing such immaturity to disturb my mind, telling the soft glow of the fixtures how stupid I was being. Satisfied and oddly humiliated, I swung my frame forwards again, only to have an event from a fright fest transpire. 

Without warning, my foot slipped, causing a terrible distribution of weight. Balancing on one shaky leg, my arms reached for the walls to steady myself, but all they caught were molecules of space. Too wobbly to hold my body up, I fell face first into the stairs, plunging down them until I hit the bottom floor. By that time, it was already too late to prevent my head from connecting with the dozens of platforms, each as unforgiving as the next, plowing at my skull with hard wooden blows. Sprawled on the marble tiles, I lay on my stomach, coughing wet masses of liquid from my mouth. A bruise was forming on my cheek, forcing me to wince painfully, overwhelming my judgment with a severe headache. A weak and brittle moan reverberated in unsettling spasms, resembling the cry of a wounded animal. I cringed as much as my damaged structure would let me, shuddering at the eerie noises I was making. The groans seemed distant and foreign, like they belonged to anyone else _but _me. 

Spread across the first story of my residence, a black void curled around me, an anaconda of forbidding shadows constricting my thoughts, masking my consciousness in sinister swallows. I was struggling now, battling against my flaws, fighting to ward off being shoved into the isolated plane of abyss. Fingertips flexed, eyelids fluttered, lips formed unintelligible speech, even legs twitched restlessly, almost as if they were trying to rectify their fatal mistake, but to no avail. The efforts were too little too late, serving as powerless signs of incompetence, gestures that were similar to a dying fish squirming on a linoleum counter. 

It was closing in on me, the horror of the shade, making my sight its premiere target. Invading my vision, the darkness sunk into my eyes, wrapping my sapphire orbs in a blinding cape of onyx. Little did I know that my lids had lowered shut themselves, alerting the body that attention for self-repair was needed. I had my hearing left, wonderful gigabytes of hard drive to record and store information in—a priceless reserve that was evaporating under my nose. At first, the appliance motors and hum of electricity eroded, then the rhythm of my breathing weakened, along with everything else—

And then it came. 

A sharp shriek I barely recognized as my name. 

 "_Seto_!" screamed the terrorized voice in real tones of agony, "_Seto, are you okay? Say something! Say something, Seto!_"

Before I could identify who the distraught howls belonged to, the snake sent me into its expansive belly, dementia that qualified as oblivion in my darkest hours.


	4. Drops of Jupiter

Chapter 3: Drops of Jupiter

Binging has ruined my self-respect. I've deprived myself of candy for so long that I can't contain my hands from shoving the junk food in my face. Before I could comprehend what I was doing, the kitchen was swamped with brightly colored wrappers and half-eaten chocolates, Skittles, Starburst, and other name brand items, scattered at every compass point like a sugar graveyard. An hour later, I stared in disbelief at what I had done, scarcely accepting the facts to be true. But the evidence was there, gaudy advertisements and logos in all, proving to me that I had gone berserk. Seizing a fistful of my hair, I gazed at the counters, contemplating how I could have permitted such an act to be carried out. I already knew the answer to my question, which made everything even more aggravating to stomach. My control regulators collapsed so my selfish ego could gorge on empty calories. Basically, taste buds had conquered self-discipline, releasing the system of restraints long enough for my body to relive its childhood dreams of prancing around in Candy Land. Furious at my internal weakness, I slapped the floor with a bony palm, cursing under my breath as I did it. Immediately, I regretted the aggressive streak, flinching while horrible vibes traveled up and down my arm. 

**/And I know/**

"I have to get rid of it..." I mumbled absently to the sweet corpses stuck to my hands, fear overriding the dull jabs of pain, "all of it. I have to get it out of me or--or--"

**/I may end up failing too/**

Too scared to finish the thought, I picked myself up off the tiles, catching the fall of some dark crumbs as I stood up. Disgusted and frightened, I searched for an idea of how to banish the unwanted waste in my abdomen, turning me sick and pale with grief. What was I going to do? Acquire a serious case of diarrhea? Get liposuction to remove the surplus fat cells? Exercise until I could no longer feel anything on me, much less my midsection? 

**/But I know/**

_No that won't work__, none of those will work. _I told myself. Despondency clawed at my insides, bit at my heart, fed upon the mocking laughter of my oh-so brilliant conscience. Of all things, I definitely didn't need the bitchy head voice to throw its two cents worth in. I was totally capable of dealing with anything else, everything except the cold, cruel tone that lingered in the corners of my head. _Something...there has to be _something _I can do, _some _way for me to pull this crap out of me--_

**/You were just like me/**

_/Suuure their is. / _the dreaded alter ego scoffed, slapping me with its normally derisive tone. _/And the Sugar __Plum__ Fairy really _does _exist. /_

"Shut up!" I snapped, eyes shooting poisoned darts at the sink, teeth clenched together in dangerous fury. "You're fucked up!"

_/And _you're _not? / _the bastard of my nightmares shot back. _/Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?/ _When I didn't reply, the asshole interrogated me continuously, gunning my self-defense mechanisms down like a trained assassin. _/Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Beluga Whale? Speak! / _

As expected, my conscience knew what hurt my psyche the worst, which insults would haunt me in my dreams, all the sordid little secrets that gave it entertainment while I drew back in a ball and cried. This time was no different, attacking me with malignant remarks, ones that tore ruthlessly at my pride until I screamed uncle. Or until it was finished poking fun at me. Either would be remarkably rewarding to the dirty fiend. 

**/with someone disappointed in you/**

Refusing to be the target of its slander, I responded with bitter determination, a tactic that was effective if used properly. "I'll find a way." I promised myself, including the dumbass that loved to rear its ugly face. "Don't worry, I'll find a way."

Expecting to be hit with an offensive slur, I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for a reply. What do you know, I didn't have to wait long for the bastard to vocalize its precious opinion, sounding as snotty and caustic as ever.

_/We shall see. / taunted the darker half, berating my intentions._ _/We shall see. /_

"And so we will." I declared firmly. "I'll make a believer out of you."

**/I've become so numb/**

_But how?_I wondered frantically, nerves drenched with trepidation, practically hyperventilating with each passing thought. A bead of perspiration drizzled from my temple, a precursor of angst and stress that haunted me during day and nighttime hours. Focusing my deadened energy on this growing problem, I dismissed the telltale sign of desperation. _How can I make good on what I said if I don't know what to do? Damn, I'm so _screwed_! Screwed so bad that I just want to throw u--_

**/I can't feel you there/**

Awful retching noises could be heard in the staff bathroom, an area designed to be a place of rest for food service employees. Most of the chefs, waiters, and interns had the afternoon off, so that narrowed down the tenants quite a bit. I knew it wasn't a house worker spewing their insides into oblivion--they'd hold the sickness inside of them so they wouldn't have to clean the same place twice. That left just one other person, a boy that fancied himself to be as robust as the Egyptian god cards, but in reality had an immune system as fragile as the Petit Angel. 

Sometime between last Tuesday and this Friday, Mokuba had picked up a brand new buddy at school, the type that leeches stamina from unsuspecting kids. No, I'm not discussing types of ingrate slackers like Wheeler, I'm illustrating the symptoms of a popular winter disease. At first, I observed nothing but a cough here or runny nose there, aspects of a harmless common cold which has a guaranteed recovery rate. It wasn't until the following morning that I witnessed him hacking and sniffling, huddled under four layers of comforters and shivering madly that I arranged for him to park his hindquarters at home for a week or so. Poor Niisan...it's been over five days and he _still _has the flu. If he gets better soon he might be able keep a meal down without vomiti--

_Oh my god, that's it. _I realized breathlessly, eyes as huge as dinner plates, teeth clicking in excitement. _That's how I can get rid of what I ate. If I do the same as him, I'll be free of fat! Released from shameful habits! Liberated from all my depressing guilt!_

**/So much more aware/**

Cracking a skeletal smile, I did a bizarre happy dance beside the dishwasher. Obviously, I had no clue that I was giving full permission to chaos to take my life and grind it in the garbage disposal, but lack of nutrition has ludicrous effects on the brain. As far as my diminishing super ego could tell, I'd probably be requesting a coffin for my next birthday. Or, at the very least, a headstone with my name and tender inscription carved on it, displaying when I was born to the current year. Either way, something inside me, some unexpected little voice was whispering that I was fucked. I just pray that it's not the dick I have confrontations with.

**/I'm becoming this/**

With the exit to the kitchen in sight, I tried to walk, but couldn't move an inch. My brow bunched together in petrified puzzlement, incapable of moving in another direction, stuck for what seemed like an eternity in a skin-tight knot. _Oh, no..._I moaned softly, almost dreamily. _"Not here, not_ _now! I can't afford this! I have to go! Have to go _now_!"_

I attempted to leave the room once more, but quickly discovered the dream to be inaccessible. Panic was setting in, grabbing my throat, sinking its long, malicious claws into my body. Terrified, I repeated my demands again, willing the chant to push my limbs into drive. The whole package had the brakes locked on, a security system that was more than childproof. 

This was one of those times where I longed to cruise towards the edge of a cliff, light a final cigarette, then slam the shift into overdrive to sail into a canyon. The closest drop like that was the roof of the mansion, but I couldn't do that here. Not when I could barley move a muscle. Besides, I wasn't in the mood for suicidal banter or serious contemplation of the topic. For once, I wasn't thinking about sky diving without a parachute or jumping into a pool without any water. I was concentrating on a lesser of the two evils, my sole request for the moment screeching--

**/All I want to do/**

_"Gotta get rid of it!"_I cried, cracking the fault line to make way for tears. "_I just want it out, whatever I had, I need it to be out!"_

**/Is be more like me/**

My head was unraveling, strangled by the flashback of manic demands, straining what was left of my sanity so much that I couldn't understand that I wasn't really looking for the nearest bathroom. I was lying on the floor. Arms were out wide, cheek kissing the stony slab, mouth ordering my disabled frame to do what was literally unattainable. Even with all those disturbing characteristics, nothing seemed as eerie as my eyes. Twin globes of blue stared vacantly out of their sockets, treading the waters of personal pain, falling into the river of a soul just as hollow as their vision. They didn't see a child on his knees with a wet, shiny visage, wearing an expression similar to a victim of a concentration camp. They didn't comprehend that the tears pouring down the youngster's countenance was for them, drops of Jupiter that were simplistic to behold, yet a very real representation of human misery. The boy could have committed self-mutilation, and these glazed spheres of mine would have continued to gaze out into nothing, drowning in the sea that masochistic routines created. His voice was the only aspect that rang clear as a mission bell, drifting towards my wrecked ship in horrifying waves.

_"Get _up_ Seto, ya gotta get up!"_ he bellowed. My listlessness drove him to greater extremes, humbling the kid to pitiable begging as he shook my shoulders. _"Please?"_ he cried, his tone flaring with hysteria, digging his nails into my back. _"Please get up, you _have_ to get up! You can't just stay there and leave me here. You wouldn't, I know you wouldn't do that--"_

Ceasing his physical distress, Mokuba withdrew from me and gave me a curious look, a combination of skepticism and sadness that made it tough to take him seriously. This was probably the most traumatic experience of his life, but his appearance of a comic book character destroyed the mood and tension of the atmosphere. His little mouth was drawn down in a hitching sob, the ends of his lips trembling while he arched a brow in disbelief. It was as if he couldn't decide whether to be mad at me or crumple into a fetal position and scream. Finally he chose an emotion, the aura of absolute sorrow, the single trait that I despised coming from _anyone _assuming the Kaiba name. The dam had burst, allowing countless streams to gush forth, leaking from his lids like shards of broken crystal. 

In a voice I had trouble deciphering, he shouted, _"I'll hate you if you do! If he leave me here alone, I'll never forgive you! Do you hear me, Seto Kaiba? I'LL HATE YOU IF YOU DO!"_

**/and be less like you/**

Regretting the vehemence his anger and fear wrought, my brother fell on top of me, moaning like I had done after hitting the tiles, shedding tears resembling drops of Jupiter.


	5. Cry of the Valkryies

Chapter Four: Cry of the Valkyries

"Niisan…" Mokuba sobbed. "Niisan, my Niisan…"

"What about 'im?" someone else asked, his tone etched with slang, harboring the appeal of an accent born and raised in the Bronx. 

"He's not gettin' up, not bouncin' back like he always does."

"So?"

" 'So?' " squawked the boy on the floor, "What if he's dead?"

A long, heavy sigh resounded, exposing a careless mannerism of the owner. "He's not dead," explained the other male, sounding as if he were rolling his eyes and being sarcastic at the same time. "he's just waitin' for th' referee ta throw him back in da game."

"But he's bleeding!" protested the child. 

"He'll be fine."

"But, but--"

Calmly, the New York drawl repeated, "He'll be fine. Just fine."

"How do you know that?"

" 'Cuz he's breathin'." stated the Yankee coolly, almost matter-of-factly.

Blowing out a gust of relief, the undeveloped voice burbled up once more. In a meek, timid way, Mokuba inquired, "Really?"

"See for yourself." replied the youngster's amigo, remaining Zen garden tranquil under the circumstances.

Briefly, there was an intermission of sound. At last, the middle schooler spoke, affirming the diagnosis to be true. "You're right!" he declared, excitement flaring in his words like a firecracker, "He is! His chest is moving!"

Snorting, his buddy said, "Told ya he'd come around."

"So he'll really be okay?" 

"What'd I tell ya, man?"

The answer came out more like an hesitant guess than a solidly known fact. "That he's alright?"

"Right on."

Again, the worried boy vocalized his fears, forcing his friend to clap his teeth together impatiently. "Honestly?"

"Dude, it's like I keep sayin'," the Bronx twang responded, somewhat annoyed."the man's gonna snap outta this. Sooner or later, he'll wake up an' everythin'll be like it was before. Trust me."

"Word of honor?"

"Word of honor." pledged the flunky of English class, pronouncing his syllables gradually, practically taking forever to form a half-decent statement. Adding on to his previous avowal to seal the deal, he swore, "Ya got my word now, Mokuba. I always keep my promises, just like a Wheeler should-Joey Wheeler, ta be exact."

/I've become so numb/

For some reason, the name of my prime nemesis snapped me back to reality. Jarred into a state of unreal consciousness, I worked my jaw, moving my lips until I was capable of constructing literate dialogue. First, I felt a buzz in my throat, then the familiar vibration of speech rattling my teeth. Finally, my tongue was coaxed to finish the last steps of communication. It rose from the dark crevice like a cobra, lifting slowly to the roof of its basket, ready to strike the unwanted guest. True to the manner of a serpent's flickering fork of flesh, I lashed out with a toxic phrase, biting Joey as hard as I could.

/I can't feel you there/

"Get the fuck out of my house." I ordered, my brash authority conflicting with drunken slurring. 

My sibling interjected with untainted innocence, an attribute that I normally loved and adored, but hated to witness during situations like these. "Why would you make him do that?" he asked, introducing a towering amount of guilt over my head.

Lifting my upper lip in a snarl, I snapped, "Because I don't allow child predators inside of this house."

"Told ya he'd be alright." Wheeler threw in rudely, his smart-aleck commentary fueling a reserve of fire I had burning just for him.

"Nobody asked for your medical opinion, Doctor Dumbass." I countered, eying the blond frigidly, hoping to puncture his dumb grin with insults.

Evidently, my devious plan didn't have the desired affect. He went on smiling at me, a huge ear-to-ear smirk that I dreamed about tearing off his face in my spare moments. As I glared at him, he gave me a sugary sweet look, one I despised seeing more than his usually dorky expression. I could see his big mouth opening, a pitfall of grammar and intelligence expanding, trying to speak to me, and there was nothing I could do to shut him up. If I wasn't in such a deplorable location, I would have already jerked him up by his flimsy strands while kicking his ass over my gated property. Oh, what an entertaining sight that is in my mind, this loser strung across the barbs of the fence, amber eyes bulging like a cartoon who had an anvil dropped on him, a point of the metal accessory going up his ass as he howled in harmony with the surrounding dogs of the neighborhood. 

"Lovely." I murmured to myself, attracting the attention of a dear friend and foe, "Wouldn't that be just lovely."

"What is it?" the village idiot queried, his features sketched in deranged alignment.

/I've become so tired/

Shaking my head, I placed both palms on the tiles, hoisting my body into a sitting position. Mokuba didn't support me, namely because I have admonished his past streaks of helpfulness. I figured that if I could run a company, be an honor roll student, invent new technology to obliterate my competition, and rear a minor, I wasn't in any dire need of assistance. He retreated from me until he was beside my rival, indigo orbs tracking every movement made, torn between racing to give me a hand and obeying my requests to mind his own business. Thankfully, he stayed where he was, providing me ample space to do as I pleased. The only one who didn't understand my stubbornness was Joey, who bounded towards me so clumsily that I believed he was a Saint Bernard in his last lifetime. 

"Here," he said, offering me an outstretched limb, "lemme just--"

Instinctively, I smacked his hand away, eager to see him hurt by the gesture. Much to my amazement, he shrugged off the callous action, chalking the encounter up as an everyday reaction to failed friendliness. Making certain that he would never dare to venture near me again, I threw at him, "Go take your fleas for a walk and leave me the hell alone. There's a Petsmart three blocks from here that treats infestations like yours, but I doubt that you have the money to pay for the vaccination."

/so much more aware/

Joey took my blatant hints, recoiling from where I was, assuming his earlier lackadaisical pose. Unable to resist the sadistic urge, I mirrored his conventional simper, cocking my lips at such a sharp angle that he flinched. My triumph lasted a precious few seconds before the ghetto freak burst my balloon, a bright, beautiful bubble that leaked helium tanks full of pride into the air. 

Turning to my sibling, he inquired dryly, "And this is supposed ta be my thanks for bringin' ya home t'day?" Frowning playfully, he pretended to be upset while motioning to me with his thumb.

/I'm becoming this/

If there was a bastard who knew how to push my buttons more than him, I haven't met the person yet. Rage poured over my face, exploding inside of my chest like a nuclear weapon fixed on destruction. Past the human summit of anger, I yelled, "Who gave you the divine right to take my brother anywhere?"

Butting heads with me, the adversary of a bull charged at me, "Who gives ya th' right ta abandon him at school?"

"What are you talking about?" I cried. "I've never done such a thing!"

He arched a brow doubtfully. "Never?" he asked, his tone as vexing and unnerving as ever.

"Never." I stated proudly, holding my head high, enunciating my words as firmly as possible.

/all I want to do/

Laughter erupted in the room, a repugnant sound that intensified the ambiance of our mini brawl. I couldn't stand being snickered at, much less having some airhead son of a bitch laughing at me--outright laughing at me--in my own home. Has the dung beetle completely lost his mind? Nobody does that to me. No one has the influence to commit an act like that in front of me here. Doing that as boldly as he had done, virtually in my face, I reserved the opportunity to kill him. I wanted to take him to a swamp teeming with locusts and yellow fever and malaria, have him catch about twenty different diseases, beat him at my leisure, then pull his corpse into a slimy grave. Anything, I would have done anything to silence him.

/Is be more like me/

Directed by an enticing impulse to murder him, I growled, "What's your problem?"

"You're so funny sometimes." he answered nonchalantly, taking my expression of fury for granted.

"Meaning…?

"Ya think you're so goddamned perfect or somethin' but ya don't even know the damned date."

"It's the fourteenth, a Sunday." 

"Nope, wrong answer, lose one turn." Joey remarked, obviously enjoying himself.

"Yes, it is." I shot back once more, gritting my teeth together, internally wondering where his cheeky, asinine thoughts came from. "It's December fourteenth."

"Nu-uh, still a bit off."

Losing control of my composure, I shouted at him, "The only one who's off is you, Joey! Don't you ever know when to shut your trap?"

"No," confessed the blond canine, "but it's not like you do, either."

"Where do you get the balls to say something like that to me?"

He produced a careless shrug. "I dunno, let's ask him." he suggested, moving his head to the left, the same direction as-

Mokuba switched his weight from one leg to the other restlessly. "What're ya tryin' ta prove, Jou?" he questioned nervously, shifting his gaze from Wheeler's visage then to mine.

"Yes," I snapped impatiently, "what the hell are you trying to prove?"

"That you don't know the date."

"So freakin' what? What's so special about the damned date?"

Ignoring me, he poked my sibling with his elbow and asked, "Where were ya 'dis mornin'?"

Tearing his gaze from me, he shrugged indifferently. "Not any place fun."

"And...?" Joey pressed. For someone turning sixteen, the teenager had as much determination and will power as I did, but I'd never admit to complimenting him. There were so many pack rats adding to his ego, little friends that boosted his confidence that made me decide against complimenting him. He does not need anymore praise--especially not from me. 

"And I don't like comin' home an' talking about it."

"Why?"

I narrowed my eyes at my downcast relative. "Mokuba?" I called, perturbed by his lackluster responses. "What's going on?"

Once more, he raised a shoulder and dropped it back down, indicating that he would rather choose the Fifth Amendment over speaking.

An insane idea popped into my head. What if the morbid mutt had done something awful to Mokuba? There were so many criminal charges that could be brought against people these days, like theft and assault--he was, after all, a gang banger once upon a time--and rape and child molestation--

/and be less like you/

Jerking my head towards Wheeler, I snarled viciously, "What did you do to him, Joey?" As he jumped back, I rose from the sticky surface I was against, steadying myself with a hand on the wall. Some dried blood had attached itself to my temple, but I didn't wipe it off. The crimson river gave me a more savage, animalistic look, something that worked out to my benefit in predicaments like these.

God help you if you let any sick notions become a reality. I thought furiously. Pray for mercy on your sorry excuse for a soul if you did something, just one single thing to hurt him.

Face-to-face with the enemy, I held my ground, doing my best to stay regal and sophisticated under the mounting stress levels. His hazel eyes returned my icy glare, reminding me of the spell of wizard's fire clashing with a sorcerer's arctic magic. Flames melted into frozen tundra, burning the chilling animosity with the cold clarity of confidence. In the heat of a potential battle, my classmate hooked some hair behind an ear, folded his arms, and devised his first strategy of war.

"I didn't do nothin' ta 'im." Joey claimed. "Nothin' at all." Pinning me to the floor with his unwavering gaze, he revealed, "But there did happen ta be a few jerks at 'is school that made life kinda miserable. Idn't that right, Mokuba?" he inquired, breaking eye contact with me to look at my brother. "Weren't there some assholes givin' ya a hard time t'day?"

The boy beside him didn't utter a word. He just stood stock still by the blond, chewing his lower lip, studying the patterns of thread on a nearby rug.

"That's impossible" I stated flatly, speaking for a sibling who had mysteriously become mute. "There's no class on weekends."

Wheeler snickered mockingly. "Ya still don't get it, do ya?"

"Get what?"

"It's a new week, but you're goin' on about a day that's come and gone. I don't know what kinda universe you're livin' in, but it's Monday, the last set a days 'fore Christmas break."

I blinked. Most of the color had drained out of my face, leaving me with a multitude of frost bitten flesh. "No..." I whispered, more to myself than the other two there. "Oh, Christ Almighty, no..."

Adding insult to injury, Wheeler nodded his head. "Yeah, baby. Ya better believe it. Ya better believe that ya kid sib over here got his ass beat on waitin' for ya ta pick him up."

If nothing else got through to my plastic warped brain, that piece of troubling information did. Stunned, I immediately switched my attention to Mokuba, only to see him turn away from me.

Unsure of how to explore this touchy subject, I began by choosing my words carefully. "Mokuba?" I queried, wishing he would stop hiding and just face the music. "Is this true?"

When he folded to the tiles, I realized the truth of what was said. Bringing his knees up to his chest, the little male hugged himself with his arms, showing me a scalp full of slate colored hair. 

Before I could console him, he spouted, "There were too many of 'em! At least four or five! They wanted the jacket I was wearin', but I wouldn't give it up, so--" 

/I've become so numb/

Fresh tears poured onto his cheeks, sliding across a wicked cut on the right side of his face. Noticing, the mark, I cupped my fingers around his chin, tilting his visage until I could get a bird's eye view of him. Needless to say, I was mortified by what I saw. A purplish line trailed from one nostril to his ear, an open abrasion that had traces of debris in it. Crystal waterfalls plummeted into the wound, washing some dirt away, displaying what innocence had to endure when it was in a bad place at an even worse time. 

/I can't feel you there/

"Who did this?" I demanded harshly, "Who did this to you?"

Alarmed, he shook his head. "I--I don't know--"

From somewhere behind us, the Chihuahua barked, "I didn't see their faces, but I know who they are by the colors they flaunt."

"Which would be?"

"Red an' black. From some other high school, the one that sits 'cross the street from where Mokuba attends. They usually go by--"

"Rintama." I spat. 

"Yep. They're known for wreakin' havoc from Baker's Boulevard all th' way ta th' downtown area. Got a pretty wide scope ta deal with." Jou explained, acting like a travel guide, pointing out interesting facts for tourists to remember. Sliding a hand into his pocket, he appeared thoughtful for a moment, gazing at the ceiling with a finger on his jaw. "Well, that's mostly right," he said with a hint of a grin, " 'til they waltz into Domino High's turf, that is." 

"If anyone would know, it would be you." I assured him. No harm was meant by the observation, but Wheeler immediately bristled, his posture so stiff that I thought he might break like brittle China if I tapped him on the shoulder. "Look," I said, rolling my eyes dramatically, "I didn't mean anything by it."

That seemed to make him relax. "Good, 'cuz I'd hate for ya ta have another run-in with those guys. They're major--I mean total bitches-- if ya catch my drift."

Out of nowhere, Mokuba's panic-stricken tone piped up. "There's no way around that! They said they'd bring their knives with them they next time the see me!"

Turning his head, I forced my sibling to look me in the eyes. "There won't be a next time." I told him. "This won't happen again. Ever."

"I wouldn't be so sure there." warned Wheeler, lines of worry creasing his brow, his hazel orbs dancing with concern. "They're not the kinda boys that know what bein' civilized means. Man, I'd be surprised if they knew what the word meant." he jested. It wasn't a bad line to vocalize on another occasion, but now clearly wasn't good for comedy hour. Seeing the seriousness of the situation, he coughed. "Sorry," he apologized, "I didn't mean ta make light a this, but ya can't just bowl through their grounds an' expect them to give ya respect. That's not the way of a gang. 'Specially not Rintama's."

Brushing a clump of mud from Mokuba's gash, I gave the stupid teen a piece of my mind. "I'll handle this myself, thank-you." 

His expression changed from cynical to frustrated. Briskly, he stole up close to me, placing a palm on my arm while attempting to make me face him. "Their leader's an asshole, Kaiba! I've been with Rintama before--hell, I've even ran with them in junior high! There's no way you're gonna be able ta pull this off without gettin' ya teeth knocked down ya throat!" Upset that nothing he was saying was entering into my mind, he almost screamed, "Damnit, think about what you're doin'! Just think about what you're doin' and what you're gettin' yourself into, Seto!"

Anger scorched my blood, the liquid becoming as hot as butter frying on a skillet, threatening to burst through my veins if I didn't do something about the blond quickly. Silently, I clamped my fingers around the Toy Poodle's collar, yanked him across the living room, and, mirroring my fantasies, hauled him into the outside world without so much as a caustic reply. He landed on the concrete walkway flat on his ass, so hard and violently that I had to wonder how that felt like on those bony bun bags of his. Permitting a satisfied smirk to reappear on my lips, I glanced at his pathetic form again. With this small achievement under my belt, I extended my arm towards the door, intending to slam it in his face. 

"The perfect end to a not-so-perfect day." I said softly, that same snide smile illuminating my features. "I couldn't ask for anything more."

Seconds away from closing the space between me and him, Joey bounced up, throwing his arms forward just as I had the barrier between our lives half-way shut. Mildly taken aback by his strength, I pressed my body against the wooden frame, only to have him push me back.

"I'll call security." I threatened, fighting to remove him from my property. "Don't tempt me, I really will--"

"That's fine with me, go ahead an' do it." he challenged. "I don't give a damn what punk comes to take me away, I'm not goin' down without landin' a blow on 'im."

"Trying to get more brownie points on your police record?" I inquired frostily.

"Nah, I'm just here ta make sure Mokuba don't become a brownie point for Rintama."

"He's my responsibility, and I can handle everything without you interfering in our lives." 

"Hirutani's not a man ya can pay off, Kaiba!" Jou roared, his emotions taking a sad toll on him. "Don't fuck yourself over like this!"

Throwing my head and shoulders back, I ceased to participate in the power struggle and stood defiantly before Wheeler, lapsing into my passable corporate personality. "If you have something personal to settle with your street buddy, go take care of it and stop bothering me--"

"We're not friends; we've never been close--"

"Maybe if you get down on your knees and stick your paws up, he'll toss you a treat." I suggested coldly. "Just make sure whatever you're sucking on doesn't get rammed too far down your throat."

Unwilling to listen to anymore of his experiences with thugs, I slammed the door on him. Outside, I could hear him beating on the mansion's entrance, yelling at the top of his lungs, ordering me to give him audience. 

I slid my head from side to side, a nice, easy motion that didn't add to my sluggishness. Too late, loser, I thought acerbically. you had your shot. You got to tell me off in my own house, so you should feel proud. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep that gossiping nose out of places it doesn't belong.

Spotting Mokuba by the stairs, I winced as he held his hand up to his face. I could tell the laceration was painful for him. No matter if it was or wasn't, he turned the valves to his tears off, rocking himself on his bottom in an attempt to remain calm and quiet. It was working. Cringing at the image of my brother nursing himself alone, I found myself being pulled towards him, only to have a single phrase bolt me to the carpet. 

/I'm tired of being what you want me to be/

Joey's screaming.

Whipping my sight to the door, he yelled at me through the heavy panel of Redwood, asking me something that no one else had ever had the nerve to.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, Kaiba? Just what in the fuck is wrong with you?"

I opened my mouth to answer him, but put a zipper on it when I realized that he might not hear what I had to say. If I had the chance to respond, what would I tell him? That I was perfectly sane for wanting to round up a bunch of notorious crooks? That I was just fine, despite the minor detail that I had my calendar wires crossed, forgot to bring Mokuba home, and left him to get hurt by Rintama? This wasn't going without mentioning that I had missed--no, blatantly skipped--class myself, screwed an afternoon's worth of company plans, and, and--

What is wrong with me? I grilled myself. Really, what the hell is wrong with me?

Unable to arrive at a reasonable excuse, I glanced at my relative. Indigo spheres were glazed, spooked by the memory of Rintama's initiation games, staring at the puddle of murky fluid I left. Even though his lips were sound proof, I could read his mind. I pictured a message board spiraling around his brain, hovering in front of his eyes, tormenting his logic at every junction in his head.

What's wrong, Big Brother? he desperately wanted to ask, the question swooping over his body, imitating a falcon hunting for prey. What's wrong?

I--I don't know...I just don't know.

/I've become so numb/

Waving a white flag above my door, I admitted defeat to my dark counterpart, the voice that informed me that no matter where I was, no matter how hard I tried, I'd tumble into its catastrophic clutches. Regardless of who or what I was aspiring to be, the dreaded dragon of my nightmares stalks my residence, isolating me in the most secluded chamber of my mansion, willing me to fall victim to the cry of the valkyries. 

/I'm tired of being what you want me to be/


	6. Numb

Chapter Five: Numb

Somebody once told me that the eyes were windows into a person's soul, gateways that led into a very spiritual realm, twin vortexes which provided a path to the essence that a free will contained. Nothing sounded more impractical to me than this, an analogy that preached faith and religion, philosophy and ethics in one breath. Why should I care what a perfect stranger can see when they look at me? It's not like they'll know my life's story or anything like that. How could they with just a passing glance? They wouldn't.

Nobody knows me, and I don't relate to them. That's exactly how I like my transactions, conversations, and even probable friendships to be conducted--and I wouldn't have it any other way.

_I'm better off alone, I'm doing good, I'm okay..._

That's what I have to keep telling myself every time I'm in front of a mirror. I can't be thankful for the dry-cleaned clothes, spotless shoes, or accessories I'm wearing. This image, the pristine portrait of a gifted, flawless student, is more than an embellishment of my inner self. It's a lie, a blatant misdemeanor against truth, a sin perpetrated by a teenager who had everyone convinced that he was anyone and anything _but _who he truly was. I am committing the worst crime of all, stealing the identity of a forthcoming pupil to conceal my shortcomings, acting like my intelligence is superior to that of my acquaintances. 

_/You fraud. / _

Look at me, always trying to be someone I'm not, someone I could _never _be in this life, much less in the next dozen or so...

_/You're not even the least bit original. /_

What if my peers ever discovered that I wasn't who they thought I was? What would happen to the awards I've won, the accolades teachers have given to me, the praise that administrators bestowed so trustingly upon my record? Would they resent me enough to suspend me from school?

_/Suspension? Whatever. The principal would rather have you _expelled_. /_

Am I not who I say I am? Is this all there is to me, some sophomore who parades around in expensive suits showing off bank accounts and car keys, but is just as juvenile and immature as the riffraff that attends my district?

_/Why not? It's not like you're anything special. /_

Why am I still alive?

_/You shouldn't be. /_

How do I find it in me to live like this?

_/Deceitfulness. /_

Who should I turn to?

_/No one gives a damn about you. /_

What can I do?

_/Be out on a ledge somewhere--/_

 "Shut up!" I nearly screamed, grabbing my head with my hands, burrowing my nails into my scalp. "Shut up, just shut up already!"

_/You have your nerve. / _spat the internal voice. _/I'm not the one who looks like I'm in dire need of a size change. /_

Pulling my brow down, I could feel the creases of a deep frown weighing on my mouth. "What do you mean?" I asked suspiciously.

_/I think you know what I'm getting at. / _

Shifting my sight restlessly, I turned to the side and brought my hands up to my waist. Yes, I knew _exactly _what my oh-so brilliant conscience was pointing out, but I didn't want to divulge that to the heartless animal. Stubbornly, I bowed my head, refusing to lend another victory to my abusive alter ego. 

_/Look at yourself. / _it taunted pitilessly, almost laughing at my attempts to avoid it altogether. _/Look at what you've become. /_

 "Leave me alone!" I hissed poisonously, "Just--"

_/Won't admit that I'm right? That you're just as much as a screw-up as you've always been? /_

 "Fuck you!"

_/You've said that before. It's an old inside joke between us now, remember? /_

 "What do you want from me?" I cried, coming treacherously close to my wits' end.

_/To do what I told you to. / _the darker half said. 

 "Which is?"

_/See what's there. / _

 "I can't!"

_/Too scared to try? / _the tone shot back scathingly.

Sullenly, I measured the space from one hip to the other. The distance was similar to a pocket dictionary's length, but to me, it equated to being mountains apart. My skin was cadaverous; a thin sheet of white stretched over a bed of rusty springs, the pelvic area resembling a formation of bleached bones drying in a desert. If I was ever confronted by a vampire, I would be mistaken for another creature of the night, some variation of the undead that refused to go gently into that goodnight. Baring my fangs in dissatisfaction, I wrenched my head up, only to be struck with an unholy sight.

_/Beautiful, isn't it? /_snickered my head voice. _/Model material right here! /_

Impulsively, I dragged a limb to my face, stroking the mound of skin there. My cheeks sit high on my visage, feminine features that rival any actresses' cosmetic influences. Once upon a time, they would have been one of my best attributes, glowing pillows of angel feathers that were softer than a child's touch. Somehow, they had been raped of their supple complexion, exposing rough, unrefined clones that could hardly boast of a past as rich as theirs. Methodically, I inspected the texture of my flesh, scanning every pore as if the tissue gave refuge to snipers. I was blind to the cracked epidermis, peeling away from my jaws like paint abandoning a dilapidated house. 

That was the least of my concerns.

Above the water starved blemishes were my lips, two rubbery flaps that bled if I cracked a grin. One of them was split, tearing into the cells underneath with a vengeance. They had every right to take revenge on me. I haven't let as much as a splash of liquid grace their evaporated wastelands. Slipping my tongue across the barren badlands, I made another wild discovery. My mouth was parched. Not just devoid of saliva, but missing _any_ drop of fluid, smothering my senses with the mental rendition of a tribal member suffering from lack of solutions. This is the status of dehydration, where I was overriding the instinct to survive so I could reach a little bit closer to that All-American stereotype, the digitally enhanced photo of a male posing for Spin or People magazine, exhibiting his good looks and proud attitude as if nothing could pierce his lofty confidence.

_Why can't I be like that?_ I speculated absently, critiquing my frame, pinching the taut skin around my abdomen. _Why? Why can't I be like that, too?_

_/Because you're repulsive. / _my strict and unyielding conscience replied, the laughter and sarcastic elements gone from its tone. _/You're revolting and nauseating to be seen with, some kid that plastic surgery wouldn't be able to help alter. /_

My arm fell from its location, tumbling in slow motion towards my thigh, reminding me of how an acrobat topples from the high bar to the floor. Except trapeze artists don't dismount like they're unable to balance themselves on their swings. Most of them are graceful, gorgeous beings that defy gravity, torturing their envious spectators with performances that become once-in-a-lifetime events. I was the polar opposite of charm and panache, tripping into my classrooms with ignominy, dishonoring my family name by damaging its elegant standing. I'm not even worthy of speaking my relations' title, so why was I chosen to uphold it? I'm certainly not built for the duty.

_/That's right, you're not. /_

I can't do anything right.

_/Never have, and never will. /_

Everyone that knows me would rather walk on the other side of the street than talk to me.

_/Sick of you, they're all sick of you. /_

Why do I even bother to show up to school anymore?

_/Like I said, nobody needs you. /_

Nobody needs me…

Agreeing with my shadowy self, I plucked a calligraphy pen from my briefcase, squeezed my eyes shut, then thrust it into a place on me that had gone totally numb.


	7. Face Off

Chapter Six: Face-off

               Throughout the ages, the human figure has been depicted as a symbol of splendor and style, a structure tastefully refined by the founding fathers of traditional art. Critics stand in awe of Renaissance paintings, praising the pictures for their realistic qualities, marveling at the raw opulence of what supposed experts sketched centuries ago. This insane legacy inspires amateurs of every color, country, and background, endorsing those compositional customs to the hilt, sculpting bodies as if there is nothing more stunning than the arrogance of mortals. As I hold this pen to my chest, its silver end winking at me confidentially, promising to strip me of the lie of my existence, an unexpected realization washes over my bloodshot sight. Somewhere in Europe, tourists are gasping in amazement at the exquisite portrayal of Venus, silently thanking their makers for allowing them to see how enticing our kind can be.

_How come I can't be the spectator in a goddess' presence? _I wondered wistfully. _Why? Why is it so beyond me to appreciate the shape of a person?_

Truthfully, I could value sculptures like da Vinci's model of David and Michelangelo's masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel. They are remnants of pure genius, a prowess that cannot be taught nor has the ability to be reinvented. Somehow, I understood the appeal radiating from the relics, approving of their nobility by bowing to the kings who ruled over them like a peasant showing respect to a knight. Compared to these immortals of history, I am nothing but a student in the master's temple, forever devoting myself to seeking the wisdom that scintillating minds before me possessed. Therein lies my largest flaw; I am entirely too obsessed with obtaining knowledge, expecting instantaneous enlightenment at every junction, criticizing myself to the point of tears if my meditations proved unsuccessful. 

Arising from the heady squalls of failure emerges truth, an asset that can barely ride the despairing currents of teenage years, but will be submerged in deception once my tsunami of fears devastates its island. 

The only individual I abhor seeing in his natural condition isn't an opponent from my tournaments, a classmate that causes civil disobedience, or even an unknown figure hustling into the skyscrapers towering over his head. It's someone so revolting; so positively hideous that thinking about him released the murder object from my grip.

I am that male, the shattered diamond on the asphalt, the gum coming unglued from a homeless man's shoe, a spitball torn up, dipped in a haven for germs, then ejected onto the nearest appliance. I hate myself, I've always hated myself, and that is the emotion I've learned to associate my name and demeanor, appearance and any facet of my character with.

Even as a kid, I couldn't tolerate my conduct. When Gozaburo Kaiba, my adoptive father, bought me a new book or gadget, all I wanted to do was hand it back to him. The trinkets were the best money could buy, but I never could fully accept them. Why such a wealthy man wasted his intelligence and patience on me is a riddle I've yet to solve, a complex enigma that plagues my views, shredding my self-esteem like an unruly child butchering his hair with scissors.

/Pain is pleasure, isn't it? / reasoned my alter ego sadistically, /I bet you'd just love to taste those blades again--/

Shuddering involuntarily, I latched onto the sink in front of me, swaying on my feet as I remembered an episode of self-mutilation. Under the spell of bipolar depression, my issues of inadequacy demolished my good judgment, duping me into believing that I'd be better off dead. Reality twisted itself into a fatal dream world, a dimension that Osiris had abandoned. I felt my spirit was advocating Descartes' Evil Genius. Laying my essence on troubled waters, I snatched a pair of scissors from a shelf and struck myself, slicing my skin and ethics in half. To this day, the effects of that event echoes in my ears, bloodcurdling screeches that deafens me to the present hours—

_What have I done? God, oh God, what have I done?_

Rising from the sea of shattered memories, my head voice resonated inside of me, its insults escalating, reaching a peak of lethal perfection.

/You did what you had to, what you _should_ be doing now. /

"Go screw yourself." I retorted sourly. "I don't give a damn what you think."

Somehow, it was able to detect the faint hint of vulnerability in my response, giving the reject an avenue to destroy the leftovers of my psyche. 

/Once a bitch, _always _a bitch. I'd say you'd make a wonderful whore, but I don't know anyone who'd pay money to be with you. /

"Y-you're wrong!"

/Pretentious lunatic. /

"Not t-true--"

/Mercy fuck. /

"NO!" I yelled, more loudly than I intended to. I'm sure students pacing the hallways could hear me, but I couldn't contain myself or the pitiless roommate I had freeloading off my insecurities. "_Stop it, stop it _now!"

Bone-chilling laughter rumbled around me. /Aw, backed into a corner with nowhere to go? /

"There's a place for me--"

A feeble response, but it's the only alibi I had to plead my case. If I were on trial, my counterpart would be judge, jury, and executioner, sentencing me to an eternity stricken with hatred deeper than Lucifer's jealousy of God. In my situation, I was labeled with automatic guilt, a Christ child who committed no sin, but had to redeem the ill will of a world that had no concept of heaven. Hell hath no fury like a demon governing caverns of chaos, volcanoes of a personality at war with himself, spontaneously spewing the lava of my own ruin.

/Where? On your knees, giving Satan a blowjob? / jeered the pervert. It had the upper hand in this crazy affair, and that was a given variable in our equation, allowing the final result to work out in its favor.

"Depraved dick!" I spat, canine tooth biting into my bottom lip, pulse pounding the savage rhythm of a slave's requiem. 

/_I'm _not the one trying to stab us with a pen, remember? /

 "Do you want to see me dead?" I asked indignantly. "Is that what you're after?

/What do _you_ think, Princess? /

"I think _you're_ the one who should leave--"

/And find you leading a happy life somewhere down the bunny trail? / my alter ego snickered. /Come _on_, Peter Rabbit! You're having a hard enough time as it is stealing vegetables from the farmer's garden! Sooner or later, you're going to bring back a carrot to that den of yours, dripping with pesticides from your occupation or class assignments--/

 "There's _nothing _wrong with my work ethic!" I cried defensively. 

Spitefully, it drove another nail into my crucifix, turning me into a tribute of the doomed.

/then you'll wish you would have listened to me. No amount of money will bring you back from the edge, that pleasurable pier of madness, rooms of your mansion filled with the rumors of your fall from the top. /

 "Nothing wrong," I moaned, "there's nothing wrong..."

/That's right, / it sneered, /you keep telling yourself that. You keep holding on to that fairy tale and see how far it gets you. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll drag others down with you. /

"No one will suffer from my mistakes, do you hear? No one!"

/A promise easier said than kept. I wonder if little Mokuba would hold those scanty views sacred? /

Mention of my brother triggers breakdowns, psychological conditions so severe that my mind shatters into millions of pieces. I can't let the bastard play me like a puppet, but my options were limited, forcing me to choose a route that I barely survived through. Gambling with my psyche, I rolled the dice in a risky game of craps, my sanity posing as the grand prize in the casino. 

/Well? / said the voice sharply, /would he? /

Collecting my wits, I called out a number that my conscience rarely won against. "He loves me, and I love him. Nothing could tear us apart."

Now all bets were off from here. Would it hit a snake eyes, or would I be betrayed? Based off sparse rules, this reminded me of slot machines, the lucky number seven that lit up the scoreboards by pure chance. Which side will the cubes fall on? Will Lady Luck be with me, or will my conscience rig the match in its favor, making this our most formidable face-off yet?


	8. Just the Two of Us

Chapter Seven: Just the Two of Us

"Happy birthday to me…"

I unwrapped my last present after everyone left the dining room. Dad retired to his office, private quarters close to where he slept. The man spent more of his time fluffing up documents than pillows, processing applications and sending E-mails to co-workers until his PC's memory card was full. Gozaburo Kaiba was like any other capitalist, sacrificing personal health for a chance to obtain that all-American dream, a lifestyle that only the very ruthless could strive for. His profession took precedence over leisure activities, family vacations, even special occasions that happened once a year. Preoccupied with Wall Street and his latest investments, Daddy Dearest couldn't care less if I blew the candles out on my cake, let the sugar burn to ashes, or threw it away without eating a bite. Yes, I can't think of a better way to remember the night I turned eight, watching my father take a new business deal, leaving me with a substitute parent to issue text books and homework until sunrise. 

"Happy Birthday to me…" I sang sadly, stifling a sob. 

Neglected and lonely, I scrutinized the stacks of essays, research materials, and novels, stacked around me in an intimidating circle. How was I going to finish reading _and_ examining key points of the literature by the time Dad came home? Arriving at a central theme for everything seemed impossible enough, but authoring a detailed analysis? That would gulp my recreational hours up like a desert dweller starved of water, deprive me of actual relaxation, induce anxiety disorders that I would have no control over--

Just as I was about to torch a pile of history references, a set of little fingers tapped me on the shoulder. Lines of worry creased my forehead, generating panic in my already stressed brain, my heart grinding to the rhythm of trance music. Slower than a man on death row, I turned on my seat, expecting to be sent to the electric chair. What I saw astounded me, completely blew my mind when I registered the sight of who was really there.

My brother, standing on the tips of his toes, couldn't have given me a gift superior to the one he had on him. Balancing on his palm was a fully decorated cupcake, a rare delicacy that was prohibited from entering this house. Our militant nutritionist never allowed us to glance in a bakery window, much less be near a dessert overflowing with fatty ingredients. We were to be the spitting image of Master Kaiba, and that meant looking, dressing, acting, and even _eating _like him. Deviations from the norm—_his _norm—were totally unacceptable and were subject to harsh consequences to follow. Nonetheless, I couldn't help but wonder what the food tasted like, what I was missing from my diet…

"Happy birthday, Niisan." Mokuba said softly, extending his hand out to me.

Wishing me the best of luck, he poked a candle in the middle of his homemade luxury. After straightening the wick, he scanned the expansive table, searching through mountains of assignments for a red wand that was absent from a Muggle born household. 

"Where's the matches?" he asked.

Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I stared at the floor. 

"I dunno." I lied, knowing perfectly well that we weren't trusted around potential fire hazards.

Crushed, Mokuba began to tremble.

"I—I spent so much _time _tryin' ta make this good, an' I messed up!"

"That's not true." I murmured, trying to put him at ease. 

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not."

He blinked in disbelief. "Why not?"

"'Cuz it's fine the way it is." I assured him, encompassing him in a comforting embrace. 

"Honest?"

Nodding, I gathered him up in my arms and sat him on my lap. Mokuba was like a life size doll, all cuddly and cute in his evening wear, hugging me with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. No card had a higher value than this moment, for it was a priceless commodity that I would never trade for any dollar amount. With this precious person on me, he made the best birthday surprise I could ever desire.

"Happy birthday, dear Seto!" my sibling exclaimed. 

Joy sparkled in his indigo orbs, another uncommon thing to witness at our residence. Left to our own devices, I felt that just the two of us made a real family, relying on each other's smiles to help us escape the raping of our youth. At least we had ourselves, an unbreakable vow of friendship, the only shooting star of hope I dreamed of wishing upon.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then blew out a puff of air, snuffing the imaginary flame on my snack. 

"There," I declared, "everything's just fine now."

Mokuba raised a curious brow. "Whatd'ya mean?"

"I made a wish."

The boy bounced on my legs. "What for, what for?" he spouted excitedly. "Tell me!"

Gently, I pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his wild outburst. 

"I can't." I said.

Disappointment spread across my brother's visage. "Why not?" he questioned sadly.

"It won't come true if I say anything." I revealed, grinning impishly.

That seemed to work well. Almost immediately, he brightened, returning to his classically energetic self.

Leaning in close to me, he whispered confidentially, "Ya know what's better than talkin' 'bout the cupcake?"

 "What?" I whispered back, playing along with him.

"_Eating _it!" he cried.

My mouth widened into a broad smile. Tossing aside notebook paper and pens, I scooped him off me and set him on the glossy wood. 

"First dibs!" I shouted, taking my relative's juvenile behavior to heart.

Delighted, he watched as I tore off the wrapping, the spark for life rekindled in me, flaring into a phoenix rising from the ashes of hopelessness to be engulfed in ecstasy. Celebrating the pure pleasure of living, I held the cake up to Mokuba, willing him to grab onto its base with me. 

"Okay, on three!" I told him as soon as his fingers brushed mine.

In unison, we counted the numbers, hyperactivity motivating us to share the fortune of kindness.

"One…Two…_Three_!" we cried jovially.

Giggling, we took our separate parts, smooshing the crumbs on each other's lips, enjoying the fellowship of brotherly love. These times of perfect peace were few and far between for me, but when they _did _occur, the event became a treasured memory. Those holidays were meant to sustain me through good or trying trials, providing a downy cloud to catch me if anything ever started going horribly wrong—

"_Seto_!" someone yelled through my foggy episodes. _"Seto, what th' hell in th' name a Jesus Fucking Christ is _wrong_ wit' ya_?"

Continuously, my back connected with a wall, dragging my mind into a reality I never wanted to see. White tiles bit at my skin, forcing my body temperature to plummet to a freezing level. A teenager, displaying the same height and build as me, had my uniform clenched in his fists, shouting such salty obscenities that I thought I was kidnapped by a sailor.

"_God_ damn _it, Set_!_ Say somethin'_, _anythin', just _SPEAK!"

Over and over the vulgarities resounded, demands that reminded me of my father hovering over my desk, ready to rap a ruler across my knuckles if I didn't comply with his orders.

_Come on, Wake up, Quit fucking around, Stop daydreaming, Pay attention, Don't be an airhead, Concentrate, Focus, Study, study, study, More work, less play, Don't act stupid, Don't _be _stupid, Quit crying or I'll give you something to cry about…_

Was I shedding tears without being consciously aware of the action? Instantly, I took an inventory of my features' present condition: no wetness on the cheeks, no runny nose, dry eyes, not even a trace of spittle on the chin—was this all just a bad dream? Even still, I felt as if I was drowning in a pool, my frame bolted to the bottom of the deep end swimming with sharks. Vile language served as a noose more than a psychological tool, tying me inside a shallow grave that my vanity would gnaw away at soon enough.

_What is the point of telling me those things? _I wondered, wistful and distant from the world and its inhabitants. _I already know what a terrible example I am, that I'll never be anyone _worthwhile_._

Lowering my head dejectedly, I gave in to my psyche, launching threats at me quicker than a nuclear weapon locating its target. It was a never-ending battle, a terrifying struggle tangled with morality and common sense, religion and intuition, all vying to conquer this internal chaos. I recognized my conscience to be a cruel external creature, an entity similar to humans that passed judgment on me at will. I never stopped to think that the voice was a facet of my _own _hatred, a rusted characteristic that lessened my personality's face value. Fully comprehending that would devastate me, cause collateral damage to brandish an unyielding sword, gutting every drop of fluid from my system—

"Oh, no…" I moaned, despairing over the warring territory of my arm. "Not again, please not again…"

Bloody beyond recognition, my left limb resembled that of a Vietnam soldier's, cut from the wrist to my school clothes. Cold sweat stung the laceration, agitating exposed tissue with sharp stabs of pain. Shocked, I gaped at my rebelling body, trapped in a conflict that would never call for a truce.

Finally, I broke the blinders and grasped the seriousness of the situation. Everything made sense, was clearer than before, molded into a perspective that I had to either re-sculpt or flatten forever. In the bathroom at Domino high, Seto Kaiba, director of an international company, class official and honor society member, caretaker of his sibling since both were orphaned, had severely fucked himself over.

_/Happy birthday, dear _Darling_,/ _chorused the bitch of my nightmares, my alter ego, my mate for eternity in a voice as sickeningly sweet as the cupcake had been, _/Happy birthday to_ you_./_

Blacking out under the pressure of failing defenses, laughter from my darker half echoed in my head, reminding me that it would find a place in hell for just the two of us.


	9. Checkmate

Chapter Eight: Checkmate

Cherubs bounced on horizons paved with white gold, springing from one fluffy formation to another, encouraging the trampolines to project their tumbling talents over residences below. Clouds sprinkled snow out like confetti decorating a wedding, bouquets of pearly rose petals tossed from heaven's hands to her maid of honor's, Lady Earth. Delighting in the royal bridal shower, God's servants proclaimed the mystery of faith, joyously praising the elegance of the season. Laughter provided the perfect accompaniment for choirs, echoing merry natures of every age, highlighting the darkest alley with the brightest smile. Children relished traditional scents of gingerbread baking in the warmth of their mothers' love, enthusiasm glowing on Elvin faces like holiday lights sparkling on pine branches. No adolescent would be caught crying on this long-awaited morning-or that was what I originally thought-until my sibling's distraught emotions proved my theory otherwise. 

Dreadful wailing woke me from a sound sleep, leaving me breathless at the sound. Without thinking, I jumped from my desk, spilling a mound of profit and loss statements for the month. Father impressed upon me that it would be within my best interest to calculate his company's finances. In other words, he used these charts and graphs to send me a very powerful message: Do as I say, or you can find yourself another home. He meant it, too. You can bet your life savings on that. If I didn't earn my keep in his house, I'd be collared, chained to the mailbox, and whimpering at the moon until the pound took me away. That's one of my pet names for halfway houses. If I was in an uglier mood, I'd have better terms for them. Much more graphic ones, to be precise.

Orphanages reminded me of humane societies, where the kids were canines trapped in cramped, dirty cages. Counselors had the nerve to call them bedrooms, but everyone knew better than to believe them. By day, the inmates wrestled for dominance over toys, playground equipment, or anything that would provoke a fight from someone. Aggression steamed under the lids of both genders, burning whoever was unlucky enough to blow the tops off their broiling kettles. And when nighttime hit…it was everyone for his or her own self. I once shared a cot with some newcomer that came when the sun had recoiled its rays. When I rolled over the following morning, I opened my eyes just in time to see him wheeled away on a stretcher. Someone was murdered right beside me and I slept through the whole thing as if nothing happened. That was how people survived living in a happiness asylum like that. If a rape, homicide, or theft was going on, you learned to look the other way. Just mind your own damned business and be thankful that you ducked the oncoming attack. Because when daylight started to dwindle, there were creatures that loved to be real life bed bugs. Except those creepy crawlies didn't just want to bite back.

They wanted to kill.

Daddy Dearest is well informed of my background there, too. That's why it's so easy for him to make me submit, to reduce me to begging him to be the mean and morbid master he delights in playing. He uses my fear of revisiting that horror house against me, threatening to yank my choker off and kick me to the curb if I so much as breathed without him telling me to do so. I can't remember how many times I'd hold my breath when Father was near, jerking my body into an unnaturally rigid pose, gazing in wide-eyed terror at nothing until he was gone. Maybe that's part of his future plan, to stand behind me until I'm so starved of oxygen, I won't be able to suck in anymore air. At least when I'm in the ground, I won't have to worry about holding anything in there. Dawns like these, when frantic bawling outweighs laughter, generates the concern of attending an early funeral. Has Daddy already closed the cover on my casket? Is that why I can hear my brother's cries, because I've already been sent to hell?

Anger and resentment boiled beneath my skin, roasting my insides as if they were macaroni noodles suffering a slow, overcooked death. Why did I have to be treated like a trained poodle? As soon as an order was barked at me, I'd instantly obey, no matter how outlandish the demands were. Bolting down an elaborate corridor, a frightening concept struck me. What if I never escaped the prison I grew up in? Was this place no different from the institution I reviled, still had nightmares about? More than ever, this mansion resembled a junkyard rather than an estate, fencing in two kids torn apart by guidance. 

Other kids received TLC without even asking for it, I was positive about that much. There were children I saw that soaked up hugs and kisses from their parents, drawing off an endless supply of affection. My fountain wasn't just dry. 

It was scorched. 

Who could explain why my relative and I went so long without a pat on the back, a smile of approval, or _some _mark of kindness? 

_Nobody thinks we're worthy of being loved._ I thought bitterly. _We're little more than Dobermans here, volatile animals who will, one day, turn our fangs on our supposed owner. Gozaburo Kaiba doesn't suspect that I have anything but cold fear stocked inside myself, but I'll show him. I'll make him regret turning his back on me._

Rounding a corner, I nearly ricocheted off a wall, leaning too far on my left leg. Fortunately, I managed to skid by without tripping. I did; however, knock a picture down in my mad rush. It plummeted to the carpet with a soft thud, the water nymphs in the mage masking tortured sobs with their sweet smiles. I wanted to be where they were. More specifically, I wanted to be anywhere _but_ here. Who dreams about finding their best friend locked in a fetal position, moaning incoherently to himself, devastated on what is supposed to be a holiday reserved for lambs like him?

Finding Mokuba in the living room, trembling on the verge of a nervous breakdown, was enough to bring me to my knees. Fugitive tears bubbled beneath my lids, threatening to pour onto my cheeks if I didn't fix whatever was wrong. Fighting back my sadness, I swallowed my hard feelings and wandered to my brother like a bug attracted to fluorescent lamps. 

_ I can't do this, _I chanted painfully, _I can't live here much longer like this. Take me away, someone, anyone. _Please_ come and take me away. _

Ridiculing my prayers, the seraphs I was taught to believe in did just that. They granted my request, slapping brittle wings on me, all to watch me fall into a dimension unlike any I had ever seen before. The landscape was the exact opposite I had been hoping for, a crater in the middle of nowhere going to somewhere more stark and desolate than Eskimo territory. No Stephen King or Poe story could portray the horror I was being exposed to, nor could any figurative or literal language describe the absolute misery I felt. 

Mokuba regressed back to tearing his skull open, blunt fingertips bathing in the bloody wounds he induced, what was left of his nails scratching his delicate skin to pieces. He looked as if he were comatose; screaming in the silence of his own self-created insanity.

"Stop it!" I ordered as sternly as I could. "Stop it now!"

My authoritative approach had no effect on him. His hands went right on gashing his scalp, burrowing underneath the tender flesh concealing his veins and major organs. How could I get him to listen to me when he acted like this? He appeared drugged, way beyond the help of a team of therapists, drifting from one reality to another as if he were truly schizophrenic. What hope did I have of rescuing him from his demons?

Too stubborn to leave him alone, I dropped beside him and gripped his shoulders in my shaking fists. There was no way I was going to let him slip away from me. Losing touch with me meant the end of Father's chess game. The board would be wide open for a direct attack, giving my nice, adoring Daddy the victory he craved. I can't do that. I _won't_ do that. Checkmate will be _my _battle cry when I win the play against Daddy Dearest. 

And I won't have it any other way.

Picking him off he ground, I jerked his head up to meet my watery gaze. 

"_Mokuba_!" I cried. "_Stop it_! _You don't have to do this_!"

Wavering in his mentally exhausting state, he paid no attention to me, lifting another hand to deepen his open abrasions. Terrified of his self-destruction, I pushed the limb away. Jaded, he kept raising his arms, trying to get at the future scars he was constructing. As soon as I forced one palm down, another rose to take its place. Frustrated and scared, I did my best to capture both his wrists. When I reached to grab them, they evaded my grasp, flailing excitedly as if they were waving in the bleachers to a favorite sports team. Is this how the last moves were to be made, defeating ourselves to plunge straight into Daddy's clutches? 

"_Please don't hurt yourself_!" I begged brokenly. "_Please, please, _please _understand you don't have to do this_!"

Mokuba had an index finger poised above his cuts, ready to slice farther into his head. Any second now, he'd press his nails into the lacerations, and there wouldn't be a thing I could say or do to halt the action.

As a last shot before surrender, I blurted, "_Mokuba, if you keep on cutting, you won't just be hurting you. You'll be hurting me, too_."

My last-minute pleading worked like a charm. Magically, his arm retracted from his hairline, flopping to his lap lifelessly. The horrible curse on him was dispelled, allowing him to enter into the realm of the living once more. Regret glistened in his big blue orbs, overwhelmed by tears streaming over his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry." he whispered sadly. "I'm sorry, so, so sorry."

"Don't be." I replied, sheltering him in a refreshing embrace. 

"But I-"

"Shhh," I said calmly, "It's all right."

Looking at me with wide, haunted eyes, Mokuba asked, "Is it really, Seto?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think it is now."

"You sure 'bout that?" 

"Why wouldn't it be?" I countered. Thinking a moment, I cocked a suspicious brow. "Unless there's something I don't know that you do?"

I waited for a response, some sort of assurance that my speculation was just idle thought. Instead, Mokuba fell silent, and a weird, unsettling pause hung between us. Was he hiding something from me? Had Gozaburo Kaiba done something so despicable to him that he wouldn't confide in me?

Wetting my lips, I queried hesitantly, "Daddy didn't, he didn't _do _anything to you, right?"

My brother's expression changed from eerie trauma to utter confusion. "Do? Do what?" he inquired, blinking at me.

I could tell by the innocent response that he had no clue as to what was referring to. Relieved, I shook my head. 

"Nothing." I said. "Never mind."

"No, really, what'dya mean?"

"It's all right." I repeated, quieting him with a kiss. "I was just being silly."

"Why, though?" he whined. "Why can't ya tell me?"

"You haven't told me why you were so upset yet." I told him.

It was the first idea that popped into my mind. I couldn't very well confess that I assumed Father to be a pedophile, a man eager to take advantage of any young, supple frame he happened across. Switching topics was the only avenue I had to getting the heat lamp off my secret concerns.

Smoothing a rebellious strand of hair, I twirled the rest of his tresses around in small circles.

"So what's going on, Little Man?" I asked, hoping to God he would forget what we were talking about. "What are you doing by yourself in this part of the house?"

Sheepishly, he shrugged. 

"I dunno." he answered. "Guess I'm not feelin' so good."

"That's obvious." I commented, suppressing a grin. "Tell me something I _don't _know."

"That Santa hates us."

Surprised, I lifted my brow. 

"Say what?"

"Santa hates us." he reiterated, more vehemently than before. "He hates us and wants us dead or somethin'."

"What makes you say that?" I questioned him.

"'Cuz he always passes over our house an' never brings us nothin'."

"You mean we didn't get any presents again this year?"

Moving his head from side to side, he began to cry. 

"No, don't." I comforted. "Don't do that."

"Why don't we ever get a gift?" he wailed. "What've we done so bad that we gotta go without stuff on Christmas Day?"

I opened my mouth, but ended up shutting it when I realized I didn't know how to respond. What _did _we do to make such a jolly old soul angry at us? Did we merit an undecorated, treeless, joyless home during the holidays? Cursing under my breath, I dearly prayed that the angels were listening to me. I don't care if my language is appalling enough to light their pale complexions up like a Christmas tree. They were going to heed my vows whether they wanted to or not.

"Well?" my sibling pressed, a little more hysteria in his tone than usual. "What do we do to prove we're worth bein' loved?"

Out of every question that he's ever arrived at, that was the one I dreaded hearing the most. Did he know that I've been attempting to answer that ever since we were brought here? How am I supposed to make sense out of it all? How could anyone, for that matter? At a loss for what to say or do, I stared out the window.

"I don't know." I admitted sullenly. "I just don't know."

"Neither do I." agreed Mokuba. "That's why I asked."

We sat quietly together, sorting through our own shady thoughts. The wind howled outside, persuading snowflakes to slide on its gusty currents, carrying the geometrical masterpieces to new heights unseen. 

_When would we be permitted to soar as high as them?_ I wondered. _Or is that a candy fantasy, one that would disappear faster than sugar on my tongue?_

Suddenly, just to past the time, I blurted a rhetorical notion out loud.

"What _would_ you want for Christmas if you could have whatever you wanted?"

Perking up a bit, Mokuba flooded my ears with a list so long; St. Nick would have trouble recalling what he spouted.

"Let's see," he began, smiling at me, "I'd like trading cards, CD's, DVD's, a skateboard, rollerblades, a new bicycle, one of those huge trampolines, the big round ones you can jump to the sky on, y'know?" 

He glanced at me, searching my face for any sign of support.

"Is that okay?" he queried cautiously.

"Yup, sounds great to me." I assured him. "Actually, might ask for the same stuff, if that's alright with you."

"Yah, yeah, yeah!" he said excitedly. "If ya did, we could skate, an' flip in the air, an' ride our bikes around town, an' an'-" 

"And?"

Halting in mid-sentence, he waved me off.

"No really, what?" I pressed, anxious to share in his daydreams. 

"Aw, forget it." Mokuba finally said. "It's not like that could ever happen."

Stunned, I watched as my brother dismissed his beautiful thoughts. Did I somehow invade his safe haven of the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy with my skepticism? Accepting the blame for his insecurities, I bowed my head in shame, feeling like a vampire sucking all the good aspects out of existence.

"Don't say that." I said softly. "You never know when something good could come our way."

"Like what, a ticket back to the orphanage?" suggested Mokuba dryly. 

I scowled. 

"No, like a mother in heaven turning into a guardian angel for us."

"Ya think she could be watchin' over us now?"

"Maybe." I revealed. "She very well could be."

That seemed to satisfy him. Shifting his gaze from mine, he crawled to the far end of the room, hoisting himself in front of a French cut window. He stuck an arm on the cream colored sill, propping his chin on an open palm. Indigo eyes stared at the winter wonderland, wishful thinking replacing indifference, appearing to be hypnotized by artistic swirls in the weather. Following his lead, I stood up and walked across plush wine rugs, taking a post beside him. Each of us scanned the skies, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mommy's radiance.

"Y'know what I'd really like today?" Mokuba queried.

I gave him a curious look. 

"What?" 

"To have Mom here with us. She had the best hugs."

"And warmest smiles." I added. 

"With pretty hair-"

"Soft kisses-"

"Sparkly eyes-"

"Lovely lullabies-"

"Hey!" Mokuba said suddenly. "Do ya remember that song she used ta sing ta us?"

"Which one?" I asked. "There were so many." 

"The French piece called uh, um," he snapped his fingers quickly, trying to recall the fond memory. "Pour Que. Pour Que _somethin'_."

"Pour Que Tu M'aimes Encore?" I offered a slight smile on my lips.

Happily, he clapped his hands, indicating that I was right on the money.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's the one!"

"You've actually heard it before?"

Ignoring me, he continued to babble about Mother and her musical prowess.

"I was barely walking when she first played it for me. She'd hold her arms out to me, encouraging me to toddle towards her by congratulating my every step. It was like I was getting a grand award by the way she talked." he sighed wistfully. "There was nothin' I loved more than bein' held by her. Nothin' at all. 'Specially when she sang that to me."

Studying my eyes, I saw an expression of peace and contentment that made my heart ache. Although I knew I couldn't be the parent he lost, I sometimes wished I could fill that gap for him, showering him with the same love he was missing nowadays. As if sensing my jealousy, he shocked me with a full body embrace, squeezing me so tightly that I thought I felt my ribs shift.

"I'll always love you." he said dotingly. Nuzzling his face against my chest, he added with a smile, "Both of you. You guys are the bestest people I've ever known."

Melting into his hug, I had to command my legs to stay straight so I wouldn't fall. I returned the gesture with as much adoration as I had in me, relishing the feel of such a spectacular sensation, overjoyed that he would always have a place for me in his heart. 

"I love you, too." I whispered into his ear. 

"Now and forever?"

"Now and forever more." 

Music started to echo around us, notes of our confidence and convictions in each other rocking us so gently, so delicately that I could have sworn Mother Darling was cradling us in the timeless virtue of her humanity. How did that treasured melody go? Closing my eyes, I imagined that it went a little like this…

"J'irai chercher ton coer, sit u l'emportes ailleurs." I sang. "Meme si dans to danses, d'autres dansent tes heures."

Joining me, Mokuba chorused, "J'irai chercher ton ame, dans le froids dans les flames."

In unison, we lifted our voices to the heavens, honoring the saint that we were sure our mother had become. After all, who else could be more deserving of a position in God's choir besides her?

"Je te jetterai des sorts, pour que tu m'aimes encore."

"I'll cast you spells, so that you'll love me again." my brother followed in a passionate solo. "Pour que tu m'aimes encore."

Enchanted with the translation, I nestled my head by his neck. Neither of us received a big, gaudily wrapped present today, but we really didn't want one, either. We had something much more valuable than any video game or swing set imaginable in Santa's sack. Mommy's spirit was with us, floating throughout our verses, professing the trustworthy qualities of the relationship she gave birth to. Her devotion was the rhythm our heats beat to, the divine essence of our music, gliding her tone flawless bow over two souls reflecting the genius of gifted vocalists yet to be discovered. 

_Who knows what we're capable of_? I asked the mystical harmony encircling us. _Nobody may believe this, but Mokuba and I might be the next pop idols on the terraces of __Olympus__. Muses would be inspired to record our blessed ensemble for the listening pleasures of Aphrodite, spreading the assets of her prized beauty on her children, permitting hopeful artists to let the torch for humanities flare deep inside their souls. _

That was the right track to altering philosophy, to rewrite the documentaries of our era before they went into print. In order to be legends in this world, we had to make history to change it, rising above everyone and anyone else vying for that honored and venerated station, eliminating those bold enough to cross our paths.

Wouldn't _that_ enrage our precious father if the planet plucked us from his gloom and doom speeches? He wouldn't be able to lodge complaints, gripe about how we don't do anything right, or sharpen his dagger-like eyes to throw at us if we found a way to escape his clutches. Then the final chess piece would stand tall on its square, shining with pride and courage at the triumph gained over the enemy. All the perseverance, hard work, the strategic mind sets will have paid off then, when my brother and I can stare defiantly into Gozaburo's eyes and savor his pitiful, crushing surrender.

_Look out, Father_, I murmured savagely, _because this may very well be your last play. So go on, make you're move. I'm ready for you now. I can't wait to hear you scream what I've always wanted you to, what I've craved hearing from those abusive lips ever since you laid those large gray orbs on me-_

_Checkmate. _


	10. Starving Sanctuary

Chapter Nine: Starving Sanctuary

Voices cracked the security of my chrysalis, ripping me from my cozy home of hibernation. They seemed to come from everywhere, resonating in the very core of my being, chanting in my head like a mass full of somber parishioners. Their tones sounded that serious, mumbling to each other in a dialect I could barely understand. One of them resembled a scientific dictionary, droning on and on about concepts related to mental well-being. And the other…it differed greatly from the scholar's, guttural speech similar to a rap artist's lingo. Who were they? Was Daddy entertaining some guests at out estate tonight? Bewildered, I pretended to be asleep, straining my ears to eavesdrop on whoever was there. 

"What's he doin' " 

It was the weird little Italian accent, chopping words up like a butcher gutting a pig. A young male's voice, I was sure about that much, but there was something about it that seemed hauntingly familiar-

Just the, the teacher's tone cut in with an answer.

"He's probably dreaming."

I could tell that was a man talking, but the depth of his vocalizations was a dramatic change form the last person's. This individual was more mature sounding, enunciating his letters smoothly, the structure of the English language flowing from his mouth like wine from a crystal chalice. His words were so silky that I thought he had a master's degree in communications or public speaking.

Again, his velvety dialogue faded, and his counterpart piped up.

"You sure 'bout that?"

Pencil scratched on paper, filling the air of the otherwise quiet room. Who were they talking about? Mokuba? Maybe even Father? My uncertainties were solved with the next response, staggering information that stole the oxygen from my lungs. 

"For the most part. Dramatic fasting induces moiré than just physical symptoms."

My heart stopped. Did I give myself away by accident to them? Do they know what I've done to myself, what I _continue _to do to myself when no one is around? Nearing a panic attack, I surveyed their words more closely. 

"Like what?"

"Psychological dysfunctions."

"Oh." said the teenager dejectedly. He didn't hide being disappointed. "You tellin' me he's crazy or somethin'?"

Graphite scribbling on a pad resounded, shortly followed by an apathetic "Not exactly."

The boy heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm not followin'."

"Disorders such as his encompass far more than eating complications." explained the man coolly. "Many patients stricken with Anorexia Nervosa or its sister issue, Bulimia, are notorious for inflicting other problems on themselves."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning people in his position may cause further dilemmas to their psyches, encouraging serious trauma to the brain by ways of starvation. Some have been prone to develop imaginary selves, invent fictitious friends, or claim to have had stimulating conversations with God." he paused, and the writing tool resumed its journey across the page. 

I guess the pencil belonged to him, since it stopped only when he carried on the discussion, and was in motion while he stayed quiet. Pushing the lead tip hard against his project, he made several squiggly lines, then ceased momentarily in his work.

 "I've seen cases where the subjects were so desperate for love and attention, they gave up on their health and lived their final days talking to alter egos."

"Jesus." commented the youngster. I imagined him with a worried look on his face, grimly shaking his head. "I mean, Jesus, Mother Mary."

"I've heard some of them declare that." the man muttered. "But in their mind, they really believe they are."

"No kidding."

"I wish I were." he said, genuinely sympathetic. "I really do."

An uncomfortable silence hung around us. The interval was almost too much to bear, pressuring me to leap from my location and start rattling off demands. Who the hell were these people? What gave them the right to analyze me? What were they _still_ doing here? Who, what, when, where, why, how…all the interrogative words thundered through my head, livid with the evaluations heard, just pissed that the teenager seemed to have bought the psychobabble splashed on him. I mean, what the hell? What the _freaking HELL_? What the FUCK was going on here?

The Italian job filled the weird hush, picking up right where his friend and him left off at.

"So what're ya sayin'? That he's a born schizo?"

"Worse than that." replied Mr. Knows-Every-Goddamned-Thing.

"Worse?" sputtered the kid. "How much worse can he possibly get?"

"He could be so far gone that it would be useless to seek treatment for him."

"No. No man, no. I'm not doin' that." 

"Doing what?"

"Givin' up on 'im. I'm not gonna do it. I'm not gonna."

"Look, I know how you feel, but-"

"No!" the boy practically screamed. "I'm not abandoning him like 'dat!"

Now it was the man's turn to sigh. "I don't think you understand how severe his condition is. I'm not trying to upset you-"

"Then what _are_ you tryin' ta do?"

"Tell you the truth." stated the older male matter-of-factly. "That's it, nothing but the hard facts of life."

"Which are…?"

"Everyone arrives at a point where they either accept the help being handed to them, or rejects it to relapse harder into dangerous behavior. No one is an exception to that rule. No one. Not even our good patient here, Seto Kaiba."

Now I was at full attention. These weren't Daddy's business partners, investors, or just a couple of his co-workers. This was all about me, whether I wanted to be in the limelight or not. 

I didn't want to be. Not for this. 

Somehow, somewhere along the line, I royally fucked up, landing in a place that was, that was a-

"No," I rasped, "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."

"Looks like he's awake." one observed.

"Not in a good way, though." commented the other. "Sounds kinda freaked out ta me."

"Don't worry, I can call for restraints if this turns ugly."

Restraints? Like a straight jacket or a padded cell? No way! Not just no, but _hell_ no! I don't give a damn _who _these bastards think they are, neither of them would lay a finger on me. Or touch me, for that matter. Any physical contact was clearly out of the question.

"Don't you fucking come near me." I warned, my tone low and menacing. "Don't you do it."

"Easy, Set." the Bronx twang soothed. "Nobody wants ta hurt ya."

"Who the hell are _you_?"

"Ya Fairy Godfather. Just lie still an' quit givin' us a hard time."

" 'Us?' " I echoed. "Whose 'us'?"

"The doc an' myself. Now will ya-"

"Doctor?" I asked, the stress lines cutting deeper in my migraine-ridden head.

"Yeah, doctor. The same guy who-"

"What doctor? Why am I being seen by a doctor?"

The New Yorker snorted. "Ya really don't remember a thing, do ya?"

"I do, too!" I snapped indignantly.

"Oh, _really_."

"Yes. _Really_."

"Then, pray tell, how did ya wind up here?"

"That's just it!" I exclaimed. "I don't know! One minute, I'm sharing a snack with my brother, and the next, I'm, I'm…"

Annoyed and scared, I shook my head. Why did I have to answer him? More specifically, why should I even _bother_ to? I was about to protest against the mocking interrogation, but more questions were shot at me before I could squeeze in a word.

"Are you alright? Can you tell me your name, where you're from, anything about yourself?"

Dazed, my eyes traced the origin of the phantom limb. The arm belonged to a medical worker in sea green scrubs, sterilized to the point of obsessive cleanliness. He had sleepy brown orbs, matching dark hair, a pale complexion, the typical features reserved for stoic surgeons on hospital wards. There was even a nametag clipped to his clothes, a credit card-looking thing with a picture of him and his personal stats. The address of the place he worked at-or our present location-was typed on the bottom of the plate. And above that, bold font, centered smack dab in the middle of it all, was his full title. Donald Christopher Whitman, M.D. Not a janitor, nurse, or an emergency room assistant, but an M.D. A real medical doctor. The guy grilling me was a fucking _medical doctor_. I'm in the great care of American health services, stuck in what _appears_ to be a cubicle, losing my grip on reality as some med school drop-out finishes his quals by experimenting on me. Lord, oh Lord, save me. 

Or strike me dead.

Either of those divine methods of intervention would be fine with me.

"You're a doctor?" I mumbled harshly.

"Yes, I'm Dr.-"

"Whitman."

"That's right, but do you know who _you _are?"

"Who wants to know?"

Suddenly, someone disrupted our friendly chatting, throwing an unwanted opinion into the mix.

"Doc, let it go."

"I can't," claimed Dr. Whitman, "its procedure."

"Alright, but you're wasting you time. Kaiba was born an asshole and just grew bigger."

My eyes widened to at least twice their normal size. Was that who I thought it was? Could it be? Could it be the same person I loved to hate?

"Joey?" I called, just for insurance's sake. "Is that you?"

I knew it was, but I had to check, had to make sure it was so I could-

"Yeah, what's up?" he called back. "Ya got somethin' ta tell me?"

A devilish grin twisted my lips. Wheeler. That flea bag was here all this time and I never knew.

"Helllloooo!" he bellowed obnoxiously. "You gonna spit it out sometime t'day?"

"Yes." I replied, my mouth still warped in a sinister smirk. "But of course."

"Which would be…?"

"Fuck you."

"Easy on the bad language." Dr. Whitman warned, coming between me and a potential problem. "I'll have none of that conduct here."

"Aw, let 'im be a jerk." Joey advised. "That's just his own special way ta say 'I love you.' "

I made a face. "Stop dreaming, Joe, I'd never say that to you."

"Gentlemen, _please_." the medical worker interjected. "I can't take his stats with you two bantering at each other like pregnant monkeys."

The simile was so weird, so off-the-cuff, that Wheeler and I actually kept our mouths closed. We scrutinized him as he let go of me, circled the bed, and made his way towards a group of machines. Some I recognized, like the POET Pulse Ox, the most common of all instruments and equipment. A blue line pumping every few seconds indicated that I had a good, solid heart rate. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Another standard device, used for checking blood pressure, stood beside the other monitor. Totally to be expected, so I didn't think anything of it. Close to my mattress, a slender pole resided, the blinding fluorescent lights shining off its dull, metallic surface. At the top of the rod, a plastic bag hung, filled halfway with a clear substance. Tubes snaked out from the pouch's seams, slithering over linoleum tiles, directing themselves up my bed and sticking its slick, forked tongue into my skin. As I gaped at the beast purging in my arm, reality gripped me by the throat, sinking its nasty canine teeth into my neck. An IV. An IV was ordered to be hooked to my veins without my permission. Needless to say, I began to lose it. I can't have that, can't afford it, won't _stand _for it at all. No! No, no, _no_! I need this stopped! Discontinued! This needs to stop NOW!

"What's this?" I cried, horrified and enraged.

"Glancing up from his clipboard, the man replied, "Intravenous feeding appliances. They're designed to-"

"I _know _what it does." I interrupted coldly.

"Then why did you ask?"

"Because I wanna know why the FUCK it's there!" I roared.

Arching a brow, he gave me a condescending expression, one that implied _how thick _are _you_? I wanted to jerk the IV from me and jam it down his esophagus, but I opted to bite my lip instead. He was, after all, the person I had to suck up to in order have the tubes removed. Besides, it wouldn't be so bad to let him win this tiny power play. Not so terrible because, ultimately, I know I'll easily triumph over him in the end. I know how to come out on top. In the end, I always do.

Making a little note on my records, he answered, "Your metabolism is in pretty sad shape. It runs at such a slow pace that I'm surprised your system has enough energy to pump blood through your body. Speaking of which," he said, tapping his pencil against my lifeline, "it's no wonder that you're dehydrated. At this point, I bet you could polish off a gallon of water without coming up for air."

"Alright!" I snapped.

It was all true, of course, but I didn't want to hear it. None of it. Stop, I just wanted him to shut up to keep his medical meddling to himself so I could be left alone. Obviously, he didn't can it. He just went on and let me have it, every nasty, gritty piece of information I had been circumventing since Mokuba foretold my funeral. 

"It's not normal to have dangerously low glucose levels-"

"Okay!"

"Or weight that is a staggering one hundred pounds-"

"Enough!"

"Not to mention swollen glands, due to forced vomiting-"

"I said _enough_!" I shouted, distraught and afraid. How could he determine that much from a single examination? "I'm not like that! I'm NOT!"

A weathered finger pushed a set of bifocals higher on Dr. Whitman's nose. "No?" he questioned me, his deep, dark eyes searching the shadows of my own. 

"No." I stated defiantly. "You can't prove it."

He smiled pleasantly at me. "I can't? Do you think that's so?"

I shrugged weakly, but remained an asshole. "Why _should _I believe you?" I snorted scornfully. "For all I know, you could've graduated from some foreign daycare in the swamp bottoms of Louisiana."

Still grinning, he shook his head.

"What's so funny?" I demanded.

"Not funny, just pitiful." he replied.

My upper lip curled back in a snarl. "The last thing I need is sympathy." I growled. "I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me." Shooting Wheeler a forbidding glare, I added, "No one should. _No one_."

"You're right," Joey threw in, "ya need a lot more than 'dat now."

"What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?" I charged at him.

"I'm afraid he's right." Dr. Whitman said. "We can't waste our efforts on coddling-"

"Who said anything about 'coddling'? I just want to-"

"Stay here until I permit you to leave." finished the man.

Shocked into silence, I stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. "What? You're not insinuating that I stay here, are you?"

"No, not at all."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," I commented, putting a palm on my chest to calm myself, "that's good. I can't be here anymore, since I've got a company to run, bills to pay, a brother to tend to, a home to-"

"Be released to."

"Yes," I agreed, "once I get out of here, that's where I'm going."

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying." Dr. Whitman said, sliding his pencil into his breast pocket. "You'll be going to a home, yes, but not _you're _home."

My eyes narrowed at him. "What?"

"I'm transferring you to St. Mary's."

Smiling nervously, I said, "Wait, there must be some mistake. Isn't that a psychiatric hospital?"__

He nodded. "It's located on the east side of the city, by a local park with surrounding apartment complexes. Nice place, from what I've heard about it."

My smile grew. "Right, that's a good joke. Very amusing." I told him, ejecting a chuckle. "That's great, you almost had me there."

The chortling turned into an outpour of laughter, jesting that I hoped he would join in with. He didn't. He just regarded me as calmly as a nurse in ER, his brown orbs fixed on me, his mouth set in a long, straight line that didn't move a muscle. My laughter, which began in a pleasant, happy wave, receded into the back of my throat and dried up. Was he serious about this? Did he really mean to send me to a psych ward on the opposite side of town?

Smiling nervously, I asked, "You aren't serious, are you?"

Wordlessly, Dr. Whitman walked in front of my bed, aiming for the exit to my room.

"_Are _you?" I repeated, more frantically.

He didn't reply. He just guided himself towards the door.

"_Hey_!" I cried, "_Answer me! What the fuck's going ON_?"

"Set, dude, simmer down." advised Joey. "I'm sure we can work this out."

"_No! I want answers, and I want them NOW_!"

"Man, what's gotten into ya?" he inquired, coming to my bedside.

Disregarding Wheeler, I continued to yell at the man, the person trying to place me in a mental clinic, the same guy attempting to vanish from my sights.

"Goddamnit,_ you quack_! _The fuck's your problem? Why the hell are you running away from me? Say something! Tell me! Tell me what the hell I did to deserve being shipped to an asylum for fuck ups!_"

Dr Whitman peered at me over his shoulder. There was something about his face, the way his features were aligned, that quieted me for good. His eyes, once emotionless and serene, seemed more sinister now. They seemed capable of striking me dead with the bat of a lash. Gluing my lips together, I wrapped my arms around my stomach and hugged myself. 

"I don't know if you can comprehend this, Mr. Kaiba, but you're a very sick young man." the man said at last, his voice unfeeling, robotic. "Yes, I will do my best to see that you are transported to St. Mary's, on account that you are in dire need of professional help. If you keep going the way you are-"

"But I'm fine, really, I'm alright." I meekly claimed. "I'll be okay, I don't need help."

"Like I was saying,"  he said, his tone as sharp as a scalpel's blade, "if you keep on doing this to yourself, you'll be the next life I'm trying to save in ER."

"But I'm not-"

"Going to get that far, because your life is in St. Mary's hands. Congratulations, Seto Kaiba, you've won a one-way trip to level C of that hospital."

"Level C? What's level C?"

"The eating disorders unit."

That was the last question he answered. Ignoring my begging and pleading, he disappeared into the corridor outside my cell, leaving me to dwell in the loneliness of a starving sanctuary.

"_No_..." I whimpered as a tear slipped down my cheek. "_NO_!"


	11. Stolen Innocence

Chapter Ten: Stolen Innocence

Fuck that doctor. He left me in this God-forsaken hellhole, hooked to an IV, forcing me to stare at the ceiling because my "emotional outburst" was obnoxious enough to have restraints issued. It took three nurses to wrestle me to bed. Two caught my legs and pulled back my arms, and one took the liberty of sticking me with a needle. I went from literally kicking and screaming to dead weight, trying hard to break their grip on me, but knowing internally that I had already lost the struggle.

_At least I didn't go down without a fight. _I reasoned, faintly smirking in the glow of the moonlight.

Then again, my mind has a weird way of evening things out. In my stupidly wasted head, I was still the victor, no matter what I got myself into. If I wouldn't have been sedated, none of the women who touched me would still be alive now. Not even the bastard checking me into the loony bin. Matter of fact, he would have been the first to go. Shot, stabbed, or thrown off of lofty medical throne twelve stories up, I wanted him dead. Not breathing, not moving, dead. Keeping me locked in a room small enough to make an ant claustrophobic is a sin. And that single point alone gives me the right to be his judge, jury, and executioner. Hope he's ready for his sentence. Just for the record, I'll never rule in his favor. My court, my rules. Straight up justice.

Can't stand being here any longer, though. I don't like the idea of being tube fed as if I were some elderly moron who can't control his motor skills. What I do with my body and how I treat it is my business, my concern, _my _way of contending with life. Interferences like this are never tolerated. I can't afford for them to be.

That's why I've got to find a way out of here. The only intervention service I need is that of a janitor, groundskeeper, or even some kid or a random visitor to the ward. Any of those people would probably jump at the chance to help me out if they knew I'd give them a decent wage for doing it. Which of those individuals didn't have use for money? Better yet, who would have the nerve to turn it down?

Slowly, I turned my head, scanning the shadows for the entrance to my cell. It all looked the same, grays blending into blacks, angular smears of cracks in the walls, the blah dresser and other equally plain furnishings drifting past my eyes as I searched for my last shot at survival. Double-checking every glint of light on a surface, I surprised myself by praying.

_Please let the door be open, God, just please let the damned thing be _open_. Not totally ajar, but just enough to see what's going on in the halls. Enough to watch for visitors or staff. Just wide enough to try and catch someone's attention so that I can—_

Suddenly, a strip of silver glittered in the twilight. I blinked, shook my head, then re-focused my sight to make sure that my eyes weren't deceiving me.

_It can't be…_I moaned loudly, _it just CAN'T be!_

The handle was stuck to its side. When it was lying horizontal to the wall like that, it meant something I didn't want to face. The door was closed. Regardless of how much I thrashed about, swore at the nurses, or cried shamelessly, no one would hear my voice. Slumping in the restraints, I chewed my lower lip, worrying about my future and the horrible things yet to come.

_What's gonna happen to me? Where do I go from here? How long do I have to stay in a nut house? Will I ever see anyone I know again? _

Out of the blue, a mental picture of a boy flashed in my mind, his big indigo orbs peering out from behind a curtain of raven tresses.

_And Mokuba!_ My eyes went wide. So far, everything I had thought of had been about me. Somewhere out there, my little brother was by himself, alone in the world and probably scared out of his wits. Without me beside him, he'd fall apart. He'd be lost._ Oh, CHRIST! MOKUBA! What will he do without me? More than that, what will I do without him?_

Wallowing in a well of self-pity, my chin dipped into the hard ridge of a brittle collarbone. Our entire estate would be forfeited to the city government if I was hauled to a mental institution. All of the things I worked overtime for at my tech company would be gone. And, once again, my sibling and I would be the byproducts of a serious case of neglect. Except this time, I wouldn't have a set of selfish relatives to blame for evading responsibility. The only one I'd hate then is myself. Me for committing the same mistake that those heartless family members did when our parents died. Myself for demolishing a fortune that to so long to build, years of torture, pain, tears and anguish to construct an empire known for producing the top gaming devices globally. And I would be taking down someone totally innocent in the process. Someone depending on me for better opportunities in life. Someone that refused to give up on me, even though our foster dad always told me I was a lost cause. Someone who never let me fall asleep without hugging me, brushing his fingers through my hair, and chanting "I love you" until I carried him off to bed.

_How could_ _I do this to him? _I wondered painfully. _How could I just wait to be taken away and put behind bars, never to be seen again?_

"I'm sorry." my dry, cracked lips whispered to the brother that wasn't there. "I'm sorry, so so _sorry_."

Feeling tired and pretty much out of it, there was nothing my body wanted more than a good, long rest. Gradually, my lids were growing heavier by the minute, sheets of skin morphing into miniature anvils that wouldn't stay air born for long. Soon they'd close, leaving me to drift farther and farther into the abyss known as deep unconsciousness. While gallivanting around in the land of dreams, I'd re-create happier occasions, ones where I still called Mokuba "Mokie", gave him limitless piggy-back rides, and promised him that he'd never have to agonize over us being apart.

Almost losing myself in the fantasy of endless happiness, I barely heard the hushed tone of someone attempting to rouse me.

"Set?" whispered an all-too familiar Bronx twang. "Dude, Set, are you in there?"

I couldn't figure out what was worse-having a coke bottle-glassed quack send me to a low class asylum, or listening to my arch nemesis use my first name as if we were best buddies. Impulsively, I turned over on my side, completely disinterested in whatever was being said to me.

An annoyed sigh blew across my cheek. I could tell it was a frustrated gesture, but I didn't care. What really started going through my head were images of all the terrible diseases that could have been blown on me by his germ transfer. Wheeler's fresh spit on me…way past the point of gross. I just _had _to grimace at that.

"C'mon, Set," chastised the vexing blond, "I know you're in there, so don't act like you don't hear me."

Lazily, I opened one eye. "Hearing and listening are two different concepts, Jou." I lectured, my classically cruel, smug smirk outlining my mouth.

He sighed once more. "Well, it'd prob'lly be in ya best interest ta listen now."

"Unless you're about to inform me that I'll be sharing a room with you at St. Mary's, there's nothing I want to hear from you." I told him, wrapping the itchy hospital blankets around me tighter.

"_Listen_," he said, "I just want ya to _listen_-"

"There's nothing I want to _listen _to, either."

It got quiet after that. So quiet, in fact, that I truly believed he left out of whatever hole he crawled in here from.

_Heeeyyy_I thought excitedly, _Maybe the mutt did something right for a change! Maybe he actually left the door open so I can call to others in the hall!_

As it turns out, I knew I wouldn't be that lucky. I heard a grunt, sneakers tapping the tiles, and that same, aggravated sigh resound. He was still here, Joey was still hanging around in my room, and there was nothing I could do but "listen" to his whining. A little irritated myself; I blew out a heavy gust of air.

"What? What _is _it? Why the hell are you bothering me?" I asked, squeezing my sore, sleep deprived eyes closed. When he didn't answer right away, I pressed, "Well? Don't tell me that you don't know what you're in this place for. You either come clean about what you're up to, or I'll just give the nurse on call a little wake-up call."

"In restraints?" he asked, throwing me another one of his goofy, trademark grins.

"Yeah," I replied, "in restraints."

"Exactly." Jou echoed. "How you gonna alert _anyone _when you're like you are now?"

I didn't want to admit it, but the bastard had a point. There would be no way for me to reach the round, red button on the wall. My wrist grips wouldn't allow it. Not willing to give up just yet, I shrugged him off.

"I could if I wanted to."

"Wanted to what?"

"Get a hold of a staff person."

Jou snickered. "Oh, yeah?" he challenged playfully, "Let's see it."

He had me there. Not wanting to dig myself a deeper hole, I gave him the nastiest, dirtiest glare I had in me to flaunt. "I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Go screw yourself, Wheeler." I spat venomously. Really emphasizing the "screw" part of my advice to him was the most important part. Attitude, it was all about attitude. My strategy was to hit him with everything I had, every backbiting bit of sarcasm, every twisted slur to get the desired effect. I had to stop him from doing this, from his relentless puppy dog efforts at bringing me around to his standards. Starving myself into skeletal oblivion is one thing, but drawing a naïve street kid into my battle of self-acceptance was something entirely different…

This time, he shrugged me off. "Eh, I'm used to ya bullshit." he claimed carelessly. "You ain't tellin' me anythin' I don't already know."

"Then why don't you _listen _to me and get the hell out?"

Instead of fighting fire with fire, he came at me from an entirely different angle, totally catching me off-guard.

"Don't ya ever wanna see ya brother again?" he questioned me, his voice low and soft and strangely compassionate.

Although I didn't say a word, my face said a thousand of them. All at once, too. Hiding the heart-wrenching guilt I had gnawing at me, I turned away from him.

"Bingo." said the blond. "I knew I hit the jackpot there."

"This isn't some game, you dolt." my wavering tone shot at him, dangerously bordering on the edge of tears. "That's my kid sibling you're joking about. He's the same boy who spent those years in the orphanage with me. He's also the same person who cared for me when our other father hurt-"

I was going to say "me", but stopped myself from going into too much detail. After all, this was Wheeler I was talking to. He didn't have a right to know what happened to me while I lived with that monster. He didn't deserve to, either.

The ridiculous smile on his lips faded. "Look," he told me softly, "I didn't mean ta hit a raw nerve. I know you're in 'dis place not 'cuz ya wanna be, but 'cuz you ran outta choices ta make."

"What the fuck do _you _know?" I muttered under my breath. "You weren't living with me and Mokuba in that house while that—that _man _was alive. You don't know what he put us through. And you sure as hell don't know what the fuck went on when I was alone with him."

"You're right, I don't, but-"

"But nothing. Don't bring up shit you don't understand, Joey." I warned, sounding cold and distant from reality. "Don't you fucking _dare_."

"Man, I don't wanna make ya relive whatever the hell it was that made ya into what ya are t'day. That ain't why I'm here."

"Then why _are _you here?"

"To make sure those creeps don't fuck with ya more than they already have." he revealed, his voice mimicking a top secret tone.

Bewildered, I glanced at the leather strap pinning my left wrist down. One second, it was doing its job, and the next, it lay in two pieces on the floor. My mouth moved before anything else did, forming the question, "How?"

The remaining three straps fell to their doom as he answered, "Butterfly blade." Resting the light, index-finger-length knife on a prominent dimple, he added, "Never leave home without 'em."

Automatically, my hand scooped up the wrist opposite of it, rubbing the lines that the restraints had dug into my skin. The marks hurt like a bitch, throbbing beneath my fingertips as if Jou had missed the leather and accidentally ripped into me. I wouldn't let myself wince, but I did grit my teeth. At least that helped to dull the pain.

"Christ _Almighty_!" I swore angrily.

"What, does it hurt or somethin'?" inquired Wheeler. After shooting him a vicious look, he laughed nervously. "Okay, okay," snickered the blond cautiously, "stupid question."

"Damn straight."

"Yeah, man, it won't happen again." he promised.

I shot him another frigid glare. "Oh, _really_."

"Oh, geez!" protested Jou. "Gimme a break, dude, I'm only human! Besides, it's not like I'm gonna--" Stopping in mid-sentence, he hissed, "Man, what're ya freaking _doing_?"

"Getting out of here." I replied, fatigued but certain. "It's my only chance."

Arching an incredulous brow, Wheeler inquired, "By yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Right now?"

"Yeah."

"With 'da way ya are now?"

Hoisting myself off the mattress, I snapped, "What part of 'I'm leaving this dump' don't you understand?"

"I dunno," he admitted, "how's about the part where you pass out 'cuz you can't stand up straight?"

I ground the tops of my teeth together heatedly. "That's not going to happen." I declared, my top and bottom jaws clenched so tightly that I thought I might chip a canine.

"How do ya know?" Jou countered, not hatefully, but not quite nicely, either. "You got some special string 'dat's gonna hold ya up whenever you're on the verge a fallin'?"

"Maybe." I growled. "Or maybe I'm fine. Maybe I'm not like everyone says I am, and I'm as good as the next guy, ready to stand up and take on whatever comes along. Don't be so quick to underestimate me. I don't need your sympathy, or empathy, or whatever the hell it is you want to call it. Just stand back. Stand back and watch me handle myself. I can do it, can make it in this world, can stand on my own two feet and just-"

Unintentionally, I started to lose my balance. My right foot tripped over my left, missed a step, didn't recover, and the limb twisted inward. Yelping in shock and pain, I continued on my downward spiral, inwardly afraid of what was to follow. The ground was coming up fast, but I had no way to prevent the bad from happening. Unthinkingly, I threw my arms in front of myself, ready to break my fall. There was no question about it, this was going to hurt, bruise the cheek I landed on, maybe even spill some of my weak, thinned blood that a mosquito wouldn't prey upon—

"Gotchya!" Joey exclaimed, fighting the urge to drop me. Dead weight always seemed heavier to lug around than anything else. Breathing a bit heavily himself, he asked, "You okay over there?"

Without responding, I stared up at the ceiling, not seeing the Styrofoam-like squares, but something different. Something altogether different. The white blocks reminded me of the textured parts of my mansion back home, bringing up pictures of everything from the sturdy columns out front to the gravel paths in the gorgeous gardens in back. It was beautiful there, all so _beautiful_, and there's nowhere else I'd rather be than in the middle of the wildflowers and homegrown exotic plants, pushing my brother on the swing tied to the banyan tree, singing songs that mother darling used to sing when we were tiny children in her arms. God, I miss her, Mokuba practically _pines _for her, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't wish that she could have raised us in that same house with the same love she lived to share. Joey might be making off with my body, but my head is somewhere else, in another time and place that Mokie could trust me unconditionally, Mother could cradle me with her dreamy, enchanting voice, and I could actually sleep at night, knowing that my body was a sacred temple of innocence that nobody would ever steal.


End file.
